


All Is Calm, All Is Bright

by nicKnack22



Series: Cornerstone [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brothers, Christmas, Christmas Tree, Fallen Castiel, Family, Fluff, Holidays, Human Castiel, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Protective Dean Winchester, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicKnack22/pseuds/nicKnack22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're having a Christmas this year, and, surprisingly, it's not Sam's fault...In the wake of the apocalypse that wasn't, Sam, Dean, and Cas are settling into civilian lives, and civilian holidays.  Sam is wise and snarky, Bobby calls everyone an idjit at least ten times (with good reason), Cas celebrates his first Christmas as a human, and Dean spends a lot of time worrying before eventually realizing, somewhere along the way, that maybe happiness is something you should run towards...<br/>Companion to A Very Supernatural Thanksgiving, but can stand alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Was Dean's Idea (4 Weeks Till Christmas)

They’re having a Christmas this year and, surprisingly, it’s not Sam’s fault. Okay, maybe it’s not that surprising, considering the fact that the last time the Winchesters celebrated this particular holiday, Sam had spent the majority of the time doing a reasonable impression of the Grinch. No, Christmas this year is Dean’s idea… 

Fun fact: the last time that Dean Winchester celebrated Christmas, he was a few months away from going to hell. He spent the day getting tortured by and then slaying two pagan gods that looked like Ozzie and Harriet wannabes…with their own Christmas tree…

Another fun fact: the last time Dean had celebrated what would qualify as a “normal” Christmas by civilian standards, he had been three years old. He didn’t have what you would call real memories of that holiday, more like vague impressions. He could kind of recall his mom singing carols instead of the Beatles. She had a really beautiful voice. He associated multicolored lights and a feeling of warmth and safety with that day: being enveloped in a hug, his father’s laugh. If he really strained, he could evoke the image of a red fire-truck under the tree and asking Santa for a baby brother, disappointed when the new baby wasn’t sitting under the tree and insistent that there be presents for him too. Mostly though, he can conjure the image of his parents’ smiling faces and the happiness that he felt. 

This is all to say that it has been a long time since Dean has celebrated a normal Christmas. John Winchester hadn’t exactly been father of the year, let alone Father Christmas. It didn’t help matters that the holiday occurred in the month following the anniversary of Mary’s death. Dean had sought to make Christmases okay for Sammy when they were kids. That had usually involved shoplifting presents and alternatively trying to cover for John’s absence or make sure to run interference if John was in a mood or drunk. Some years, he was more successful than others. Christmas got harder as Sam got older and he and John grew further apart. It was different too, once Dean and Sam started to join their dad on hunts. It wasn’t like they were religious or anything and anyway, when you’ve got demons and monsters and literal hell to deal with every fucking day, sometimes this shit just falls off your list of priorities. Dean thinks that maybe Sam celebrated Christmas with his friends at Stanford, maybe even with Jess and her family—Dean spent those years getting smashed if he paid attention to the date at all—but he doesn’t ever ask about that, because he’s not sure that he wants to know, and Jess is a painful subject for Sam, even after all this time, and probably always will be. 

This year though, this year it’s different. The apocalypse that wasn’t is over. Hunting is done. The Winchesters have effectively retired from the supernatural. Cas is human now. Dean and Sam are civilians. No, really. It sounds like the punch line to some fantastical joke, but it’s not, even if Dean keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. They’ve got jobs, a house, a freakin mortgage; there is a sense of stability that hasn’t been the case in a long fucking time. It’s a bit overwhelming to be honest. 

They’re each adjusting in their own way. All of them still have nightmares. Old habits—like salting windows and doors, keeping knives ready to hand, and putting devils traps under the welcome mat—are hard to break. Staying in one place for more than a week and using their real names when they introduce themselves to people…it’s fucking weird and unsettling. Dean honestly spent the first month feeling this bizarre internal tug-of-war, where he was simultaneously happy to be in one place and certain that he was going to go stir crazy. There was this constant itch to get in the Impala and just drive, combined with a weird sort of panic that this new life was going to go up in flames just as quickly as the old one had and with just as little warning. If it weren’t for Sam and Cas keeping him grounded, he’s not sure what he would have done, but then, he’s increasingly getting the feeling that he’s holding them together just as much. 

It’s getting better slowly, incrementally. The Winchesters have to adjust to civilian life, but Cas, well Cas has to adjust to being an entirely different species…and, well, it’s not always been what you’d call easy going. Dean winces when he remembers the first few months. Cas is learning to be human a little more every day. He smiles more than he used to. Sam seems lighter, like some enormous burden has been lifted from his shoulders. Dean feels a warm sort of feeling in his chest when sees the former angel explain something to Sam and Sam smile free and easy in response at the joke. He thinks that sensation in his chest might be contentment, but it’s been such a long time since he’s felt that, and it’s such an unfamiliar sensation, that it’s hard to be sure. He doesn’t want to examine it too closely in case that will make it all disappear. So I’m being cautious, so sue me, he observes to himself, then shakes his head.

There’s a definite sense of gratitude in him when Cas eases against him on the sofa one night in early December. This intimacy, this touching, it’s brand new and it sends a thrill through Dean every time. 

On this particular evening, about a week past Thanksgiving, they’re all seated in the living room. It’s movie night, a weekly ritual that Sam and Dean have instituted in order to initiate Cas into the finer points of pop culture. They alternatively choose films that are, as Sam says, “integral to his adaptation.” Dean takes offense at the phrasing, “dude, you’re makin’ the guy sound like a fucking experiment.” Sam directs an extremely judgmental expression at his brother: it’s almost but not quite a bitch face, but nevertheless insinuates that Dean has entirely missed the point. 

Regardless, they’ve agreed that giving Cas a working knowledge of pop culture references might make his life a little bit easier, and Dean is completely in favor of anything that’s going to make Cas’ path run more smoothly. So every week they offer Cas choices and they’re slowly working their way through a wide array of films that Sam and Dean consider essential. Tonight, it’s The Godfather, which was important enough to warrant an endorsement by both Winchesters. Sam orders pizzas for dinner because they’ve finally run out of leftovers. There’s a vegetarian for Sam and a meat lovers for Dean (and, yeah, Sam made a joke about that, the kid’s not a saint), and Cas is taking slices from both pies (carefully removing mushrooms from one and ham from the other). 

Aside from dissecting his dinner with medical exactitude, the former angel is almost laser focused on the film. The comments that he makes indicate that he has an innate understanding of the mafia based almost solely on his experiences with heaven’s upper-management, which Dean finds extremely disturbing, if not all that surprising. He’s got his arm around Cas’ shoulders and Cas has drawn his knees into his chest, leaning closer to Dean now that they’ve all finished eating. Sam looks on with an expression of complete benevolence and pride, as if he had personally organized for this arrangement and was fully responsible for their position. Dean can read Sam’s face like a book and his baby brother clearly thinks that they’re the most adorable thing that he’s ever seen (although, if they started making out, Dean’s pretty sure Sam’s face would turn instantaneously to “ugh, dude, I am sitting right here, go to your room or something,” and he smirks at the thought). Watching Sam watching the two of them, Dean has the strangest sense that he’s living in some bizarre post-apocalyptic version of The Parent Trap (which is not going on Cas’ must watch movie list, no matter what Sam thinks), and he finds himself unbelievably thankful that Sam doesn’t have a twin. One’s enough. 

“So,” Dean begins. Cas startles slightly and slowly moves his gaze from where Sonny is beating the living shit out of Connie’s husband. Sam was already staring at them, so it’s just a matter of pretending that he wasn’t and turning his expression from doting uncle to something more serious. Dean clears his throat, “so when are we gonna get the tree?”

Cas tilts his head, in a good approximation of a curious puppy, brow furrowing quizzically. Sam blinks slowly, looking as if he can’t quite believe his ears. And, okay, maybe that’s a little bit justified, given the massive guilt trip that had been required to secure Thanksgiving (which, fyi, included what Dean considers an illegal and completely contrived strategic placement of Castiel, though, given the outcome, which includes Cas all up in Dean’s personal space in all of the best possible ways, he’s not really going to complain too much about Sam’s tactics…). After all—Dean ruffles Cas’ untidy hair, which doesn’t dispel the former-angel’s concentrated expression, as if he’s trying to translate human into something he can understand—he figures that he owes Sam. The younger Winchester seems to be gung-ho about the whole, normal family = family holidays and traditions, and, hey, if that’s what’ll make him happy, Dean’s on board. He can bend a little bit. 

The silence seems to be getting to Cas, who has been waiting patiently for some sort of explanation, “I don’t understand,” he admits.

Sam meanwhile counters Dean with a “Dude, are you serious?”

“Yep,” Dean offers, smiling, “c’mon, it’ll be great.”

“What are you implying?” Cas asks. He still looks confused, and Dean chuckles a little.

“He means we’re gonna get a Christmas tree, Castiel,” Sam supplies, and Cas swivels to look at the younger Winchester.

“But you said that—” Cas begins almost accusingly. Sam shakes his head sharply, but he’s still beaming. Dean narrows his eyes and he figures that he can get to the bottom of that later. Right now, he uses his fingers to guide Cas’ chin back towards him. 

“D’you want a Christmas?” he asks, and he’s not going to lie, he’s a little bit nervous about the question. “I mean, I’m not what you’d call an expert, but we can ya know, do the whole thing with the lights and the tree and whatever—it’s probably not gonna be like Christmas with the Crosby’s but, I think we can avoid doing a Chevy Chase,” Sam laughs appreciatively. But Dean is still focused almost entirely on Cas. He does that thing where he brushes something off like it’s not a big deal when really it is. Disappointment is easier when you brace yourself for it. He glances away and back from beneath his lashes. Cas, who angel mojo or not, still looks at Dean like he can see straight into his soul, contemplates his proposal seriously. 

“I don’t understand those references,” he says slowly, “but I think that I would like ‘a Christmas.’” Dean can hear the quotes as clearly as if he’d seen Cas draw them in the air with his fingers. He means a human Christmas as opposed to a heavenly one. Because Cas has literally celebrated every single Christmas ever as an angel, but this will be his first with Sam and Dean. So it’s not like there’s any pressure or anything. Dean swallows audibly.

“We’ll put those movies on the list,” Sam says. He sounds like he’s about five, or, more accurately, what he would have sounded like as a five year old if he’d had anything approximating an actual childhood with a mom and his own red-fire truck under the tree. He’s almost joyful, which, wow, it’s about the polar opposite of his reaction the last time that Dean suggested that they do this (again, that’s fair given the circumstances). Dean can see the wheels turning in Sam’s head. The kid is planning it all from now, he’s got a mental list of every holiday movie that Cas needs to see and all the trappings of the season and…it’s making Dean’s head spin a little. He focuses once again on Cas, who looks incredibly solemn. 

“You okay?” he asks, gruff and concerned, while Sam goes into the kitchen, presumably to call and invite Bobby. 

Cas looks a bit unsure, and Dean wishes that they’d chosen a lighter film for tonight’s viewing pleasure. “I believe so,” Cas replies though he’s still frowning. 

“Well, cheer up,” Dean tells him (he wishes it were that easy). He leans closer and kisses Cas gently, “Sam’s gonna turn this place into Santa’s freakin village and we’re gonna be together. Maybe there’ll even be snow.” He brushes his fingers against Cas’ jaw, almost believing himself, and trying to convey that, as long as Cas is here, and Sam is here, and they’re both happy, that’s all Dean needs for a Merry Christmas. He thinks Cas gets it because his furrowed brow softens slightly and he leans into Dean’s touch. There is the beginning of a smile on his lips. 

“Is snow so important?” 

Dean grins, “You bet.” He’s not positive, but he’d lay money on the fact that it wasn’t snowing in Bethlehem on the first Christmas. Hell, according to Sammy, Jesus wasn’t even born in December, so, you know, angel logic might be relevant. 

“There are like seven songs about it,” Sam validates as he comes back into the room, confirming that Bobby is going to drive out on the twenty-fourth. 

Cas, meanwhile, breathes heavily and leans his head against Dean’s shoulder. His sigh is eloquent: more things to learn; picking up the nuances of humanity as an active participant is a complicated and tiring process. Dean gently runs his hand along Cas’ shoulders. He is pretty sure that he and Sam might not be the most qualified to teach him about this particular aspect of the human experience. Hell, they’re at least half as clueless, but they can figure it out together. He and Sam share determined gazes. 

If they’re gonna do this, they’re gonna do it right. Sam busts out his laptop; Dean makes some coffee; and Cas puts on his game face, like he’s going to smite the fuck out of human traditions. In short, Team Free Will is approaching the Christmas holiday like a particularly nasty triple murder perpetrated by vampires. They start building a list. Things that are a part of the holiday that they want to include, things there’s no way in hell that they’re doing ever. They haggle over some items, but some things are unanimously agreed upon. Cas offers esoteric facts about the origins of certain pagan rituals associated with midwinter, and some truly fucked up histories of Christian celebrations and brutalization over the centuries. He confirms Sam’s belief that 25 December is not Jesus’ actual date of birth. He was born in the Spring according to Cas. Sam gives Dean a satisfied smirk until his brother reminds him “you said he was born in the fall, bitch,” and he expression becomes a glare. It takes them about two hours, but in the end there is a piece of paper—scribbled on in three sets of hand-writing, crumpled from where Dean and Sam tried to rip it out of the others’ hands; some things have been crossed off and rephrased, and negotiated, but they’ve reached a general consensus—and Sam pins the finished product to the fridge in a place of honor. He’s got a proud look on his face, like he’s hanging his preschooler’s first finger painting, and Dean has a momentary realization that that might actually be something that Sam has waiting for him in his future: marriage and kids and the whole white-picket fence thing. It floors him for a second, before Cas takes his hand and squeezes gently, and Dean realizes that he himself is almost halfway there. It’s kind of terrifying and kind of awesome at the same time. Sam smiles again at the two of them. Dean nods, Christmas is coming.


	2. Oh, Christmas Tree (Three Weeks Till Christmas)

Cas approaches his first Christmas as a human like a project. Dean isn’t sure if he’s treating everything like a holy mission because of an ingrained angelic habit formed over several millennia as heaven’s bitch, or if this is Cas’ attempt to find stability in a new and constantly shifting human life. Either way, the former-angel is acting like the Winchester Family Christmas (because, yeah, Cas is officially one of them) is vital to the universe. It’s a little worrisome. Dean alternates between finding it incredibly endearing and really freaky. 

Since they decided to have a Christmas, Cas has been more withdrawn than usual, which, in Dean’s opinion, is saying something. He’s quiet and he always has this extremely solemn expression on his face. 

“Are we sure this is a good plan?” He finally breaks down, and asks Sam one night when Cas has, once again, vanished to his room.

Sam looks genuinely confused, though maybe not all that surprised that Dean is having some sort of break down, “Is what a good plan?”

“The whole Christmas thing, dude,” Dean frowns.

Sam sighs, “Dean, it was your idea.”

“I know that,” Dean retorts, “But—”

“But?”

“But what’re we gonna do, man, go get a fucking tree and put Cas on top of it?” Dean spits out, “I mean, really? Christmas?”

“Dean—” Sam starts, softly.

“I mean the dude is used to fucking heaven for fuck’s sake, and, what, we’re gonna give him some tinsel and a cookie and hope for the best.” Dean rubs his eyes.

“Dude,” Sam tries again, “You were stoked about this like three days ago.”

“That was before Cas started using his room as a fucking Dagobah meditation retreat,” Dean hisses. 

Sam takes a deep breath, bitch face #1 Dean, you’re an idiot, “Dude, Cas usually meditates…pretty sure that’s something he’s literally been doing forever.”

Which, yeah, okay, that’s a fair point. “Yeah, but he’s been…you know,” Dean gestures expansively, desperate to indicate without words that Cas had been getting better: he had seemed happier and more willing to engage with them, and less likely to sit alone for untold hours on end and depressed to the point where Sam and Dean took alternate turns at suicide watch, “and now he looks fucking miserable.” What he really looks like is a lost soldier of heaven. Dean doesn’t want to think about the fact that that’s what Cas actually is and that he’s probably fucking miserable stuck here with humanity and with Dean in particular… 

Sam gives Dean his most sympathetic face, and it only makes Dean feel more anxious. Sammy only uses that expression when there is something seriously wrong, like when Sam’s telling a witness how sorry he is that her husband exploded into jelly right in front of her face. 

Sam puts a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder, “Dude, he’s still adjusting. He only fell like five months ago. It’s probably nothing.”

Dean glowers, it is never nothing. Sam shrugs, “Look, if it is something, Cas would tell us, but, seriously, you stressing about Cas, isn’t gonna help. It’s just gonna freak him out. He’s like a barometer for your weird ass mood swings.” 

“Bitch,” Dean says, but the word is muffled by his hands and has no real heat behind it. He hates when Sam is sensible.

“Let him do his thing. He’ll mellow out,” Sam grips Dean’s shoulder and then let’s go. 

He knows that Sam is right, but Dean still worries... 

They go to get a tree that weekend. Sam has researched the local options and finds some Santa’s Village place about half an hour away. They’re using the run-down pickup truck that Sam’s taken to driving because “there is no way in hell we’re using my baby for this.” Sam had rolled his eyes but conceded the point. The Impala has survived decades of repeatedly being subjected to all sorts of tortures and lovingly coaxed back to life by Dean. It would be cruel and unusual punishment to abuse her with pine needles at this stage of her life. 

Dean can’t lie (well he can, really, really well actually, but in this case he’s not); he’s genuinely excited to get a tree. It’s like a staple of Christmas and he’s never really managed to do the real thing, not since he was a small child. When they pull up to the tree farm though, it’s Sam who takes the lead, looking like an overgrown kid. Dean has a lopsided grin on his face, and Cas, as ever lately, seems especially solemn, taking in his surroundings with an aloofness that does nothing to assuage Dean’s fears. 

They wander around through the rows of pines and firs. Dean pulls Cas aside and forces him to put on his hat. Cas startles before he glares pointedly at Dean. He really hates the damn thing, and persistently seems to either forget, or resent, the fact that he needs to worry about things like frostbite these days. Dean can’t help but laugh at the expression on his face. He doing a good impression of a sulky toddler. In fact, Sam used to look a lot like that when Dean made him put on mittens as a kid.

“It’s not funny, Dean,” Cas argues. He’s got his pissed angel face on, but it’s mitigated as Dean forces the blue ski cap on his head, and tucks an errant lock of Cas’ hair beneath the fleece. 

“C’mon, baby,” Dean cajoles, with charm, “it’s cold outside.”

Cas, who by this point has heard enough Christmas music to get the reference, largely thanks to Sam, rolls his eyes, trying to hide a grin. Dean’s smile broadens in reflection of the tiniest upward tilt of Cas’ mouth.

“You are ridiculous,” Cas tell him.

“You know you love it,” Dean gives in to impulse then and leans forward, kissing Cas. The angel’s eyes widen and, when Dean pulls back, Cas is definitely smiling, small and soft. 

“If you two could stop groping each other for five seconds,” Sam interrupts, which Dean thinks is a gross exaggeration, “maybe we could find a tree before we all freeze to death.”

“Gettin’ soft in your old age, Sammy,” Dean teases.

Cas voices the concern that their expression of physical affection is harming Sam’s psyche. He delivers this pronouncement in a level tone, with only the slightest spark in his eyes belying his humor. Dean tells him that Sam wasn’t hugged enough as a child (which is probably true). Cas regards Sam much like he would look at a lost puppy (despite Sam’s constipated expression). Without hesitation, he moves forward and pulls him into a hug. Sam pats Cas gently on the back and directs bitchface # 5 you fucking jerk; you are going to pay for this at Dean. 

The former-angel states, sincerely and evenly, “We both love you very much, Sam, and value your presence—” 

“Uh, thanks, Castiel,” Sammy replies somewhere between affection, amusement, and awkwardness, “you too.” 

“I am sorry that you were denied physical affection as a child,” Cas continues seriously. Sam seems to realize that Cas is going to attempt to rectify this by hugging him more frequently. His face is priceless.

Dean snaps a picture with his phone, trying not to laugh, “You two are adorable.” 

Sam gives him bitchface #25 bitch, I will end you. 

“C’mon, Sammy, next year’s Christmas card,” he quips. 

Dean hangs back a little bit after that, letting Sam and Cas continue their bonding moment with a discussion of the pros and cons of this Balsam over that Douglass fir. Cas has an incredible knowledge of ordinary and extraordinary things and could probably give them a detailed evolutionary chart of every species of tree here (which he thankfully does not do), instead he talks about the ways that certain trees have been used culturally for religious rituals. He says something about druids that launches Sam into paroxysms of nerdy joy. Dean looks on with pride and indulgence. 

He snags candy canes for the three of them from one of Santa’s elves. Cas saves his for later, Sam eats his in bites, and Dean savors his slowly until it’s got a lethal edge…

Cas finally decides on a Frazier Fir that’s tucked in the very back of the very last row. It’s a little worn down, some branches are crooked. It’s definitely not the most impressive or most beautiful tree on the lot and it’s clearly had a rough road from wherever it was grown to its final destination, but it’s a deep green and it smells like Christmas, and Cas regards it fondly and says that “it’s a good tree.” Dean glances at Sam, who is shooting Cas a small smile and Dean some puppy eyes to match the fallen angel’s. Of course, Cas would pick a Charlie Brown tree. Guy’s got a soft spot for broken things. Dean is a living breathing example of that, and he’s grateful because he’s pretty sure that he’s the one making out on that deal.

Sam shows his approval of Cas’ choice with an easygoing grin, and Dean agrees that “it’s a good tree, Cas,” with a softness of expression and gruffness of voice that lets the other two know that he means more than just the tree. 

They set it up in the living room. Covering the damn thing in multi-colored Christmas lights takes some work and a lot of cursing. Everyone gets sap on their hands, wantonly stabbed with branches, and a liberal coating of pine needles. Dean calls the tree and ungrateful bastard no fewer than five times. Cas admits morosely that “this seemed much easier in films we’ve watched,” and Sam repeatedly tells Dean that “dude, you’re doing it wrong, be careful! You’re gonna break it!” “Watch yourself, Sammy!” Dean retorts, while Cas says quite deadpan “I think that this tree is making attempts upon our lives.” They all pause to contemplate this possibility seriously for a few minutes before laughing hysterically. Cas looks absurdly pleased with himself for having brought smiles to their faces, and Dean wishes that Cas knew how often he was the cause of happiness. 

They don’t have many ornaments or any really. Though, Dean promises that they’ll get some if Cas wants to decorate the thing properly. Sam apparently bought silver string tinsel, which Cas takes with apparent fascination. He proceeds to carefully drape individual strands on the branches. It reflects the lights, and Dean enjoys watching Cas’ focus. Sam leaves them to it in order to make some hot chocolate. They had decided that that was a Christmas must (especially in lieu of eggnog). Dean was going to introduce Cas to the instant variety before Sam intercepted. “Seriously? Do you want him to like it?” Dean had rolled his eyes, but Sam found a recipe, and Cas, who is honestly the best chef of the three of them, had made a frothy, chocolately mess that was fucking out of this world. Cas, apparently shares Gabriel’s sweet tooth, because his expression after the first sip was something like wonder, and it’s become a daily staple for the month of December. Neither Dean nor Sam is complaining. Tonight, tree decorating takes priority for Cas, so Sam offers to whip some up.

“Please, try not to make a huge mess,” he directs pointedly at his brother as he moves towards the kitchen. 

“Why d’you always look at me?” 

Sam gives him an over the shoulder bitch face #62 because you always make a mess, and I always get the pleasure of having to clean it up. Dean gives him a theatric eye-roll in return and moves to help Cas. 

He’s no good at separating the strands of tinsel and ends up leaving glittering clumps of the stuff at uneven intervals. Hey, he never said he was Martha Stewart. They start on opposite sides of the tree, and, when Cas comes around and catches sight of Dean, he laughs. A real, genuine laugh, where his nose crinkles and he shows his teeth and shakes his head, and Dean can count the number of times he’s seen Cas do this on one hand (not including the strung out junkie version, cackling at the end of the world). It is honestly a fucking miracle. Dean’s stomach flips. He indicates his section of the tree with mock pride, and when Cas keeps laughing, Dean asks, “What, not good enough for you?”

“No, it’s—” Cas chuckles as he gestures towards Dean, “you’ve got a bit of something just there.”

Dean looks down and realizes that he’s covered in tinsel. It’s stuck to his flannel shirt and his jeans. 

“You’ve also got a halo,” Cas just keeps grinning, as Dean rubs his hand over his own hair and comes away with more of the stuff. 

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, “I’ve got Christmas herpes or something.”

Sam is drawn into the room by Cas’ laughter (or some sixth sense that lets him know when Dean is in an embarrassing position, whichever you want to believe). He stays long enough to laugh at Dean and snap a picture with his phone.

“Sammy—I’m gonna get you for that!” he begins, but Cas interrupts him, by brushing his hands over Dean’s hair.

“You missed a spot,” he says, moving down to Dean’s neck and shoulders, removing tinsel from Dean’s skin and clothing with as much focus as he had given to putting it on the tree. Cas pauses when his hand comes to rest on the brand that Dean still carries. Even through his layers, Dean can feel Cas’ touch on the mark like a jolt of electricity. Their eyes meet, and it feels, like it so often does, like there isn’t enough air between them. 

“Dean—” Cas begins.

“So who’s up for some hot cocoa?” Sam comes back in with three mugs. Dean grimaces. Damn it, Sammy, he curses internally. Cas bites his lip and takes a deep breathe, almost like he’s praying for serenity, and, hey, maybe he is. God knows that he needs it living with Sam and Dean. He gives Dean’s should a squeeze and nods just slightly, before turning towards Sam with a smile on his face. He accepts his mug, thanks the younger Winchester, and moves to take his place on the sofa, giving Dean a “what are you waiting for?” look. The hunter shakes himself from his reverie and joins him a beat later. Dean says that the hot chocolate is good, but not as good as when Cas makes it, and Sam accuses him of being biased. Dean tries to convince Sam to delete the picture. Cas argues that it’s cute, and Dean scowls before promising vengeance on his brother. Sam maintains that it’s only fair after the picture Dean took at the tree farm.

“Oh, come on Sammy, we’re gonna frame that one. You two were having a moment.” 

“Fuck you, Dean,” Sam retorts, “and I’m keeping this.” 

Dean promises that this means war, and Cas calls them both children. Sam looks abashed, but Dean grins like a shark. 

They watch A Charlie Brown Christmas. Cas says that “the moral is poignant and justly expressed;” he really likes Linus. This is clearly his favorite of the holiday films they’ve viewed so far. They’d started off with National Lampoon since Dean had already referenced it. Sam and Dean had both laughed. When you’ve spent several Christmas’ on wendigo hunts, or being tortured by vampires, the absurdity of the film is pretty funny. Cas however had looked mildly uneasy, absorbing the entire thing with a focused and somewhat terrified expression (the last time Dean had seen him look like that, they’d been at the whore house). When it was all over, Cas had turned to Dean, and implored, wide-eyed and desperate: “Please, can we not replicate that celebration of the holiday?” 

Sam had laughed, and Dean had asked, “Which part?” to which Cas replied seriously, “Any of it.” Sam had laughed even harder; Dean smiled, “I think we can manage that,” but Cas had seemed unnerved. They had moved on to the stop motion Claymation classics next. And, fuck, some of those were disturbing, and not just because the characters looked creepy. They were about a quarter of the way through Santa Claus Is Comin to Town, and Sam and Dean were both making horrified faces, when Cas blatantly observed, “I think that Santa is propositioning those children for sexual favors.” “Yeeeeahhhhh,” Sam said. “Well that’s fuckin’ messed up,” Dean ejected the DVD and put on The Year Without A Santa Claus and Rudolph instead, both of which were moderately less disturbing. Cas really liked the elf who wanted to be a dentist and made some sort of analysis about redemption and the Abominable Snow Man. 

God only knows what the rest of the movies are gonna bring because Dean’s pretty sure he would have been scarred as a child (more scarred as a child) if he’s seen some of these. But tonight, with Cas by his side and the tree throwing lights over the three of them, he feels calm for the first time in days. He doesn’t point out how much he relates to Charlie Brown’s tree. He’s made too much fun of Sam and Cas’ meta-analysis of holiday films for that. But he thinks absurdly that maybe Cas, like those kids, has taken something broken and messed up and forgotten and turned it into something beautiful. Like maybe because of him, Dean’s better than he was at the start. He doesn’t say that though. He just pulls Cas closer, presses a kiss to his hairline, and hopes that he can return the favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN:  
> Welcome to chapter two. Thank you for reading! I hope that you enjoyed. I’m planning to post the next chapter by Thursday.


	3. Interlude:  Up on a Rooftop (2 Weeks Till Christmas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winchester brother bonding time

Sam and Dean string Christmas lights one night in the second week of December. It’s cold as fuck outside, but the sky is clear. It’s just the brothers; Cas is at the library. He likes to hang out there. Books continually fascinate him; something about the human desire to capture and preserve knowledge, but, also, more recently, “they help me to understand the human condition.” The variety of expression, and the way it is captured, has apparently been helping him to navigate his new mortality. He’s working his way through “modern” literature (going with Cas’ definition of modern, basically means anything written after the Crusades). Currently, he’s neck deep in A Christmas Carol and he professes that he is moved by Dickens’s use of language and “invocation of the supernatural in order help his fellow men towards redemption.” He also tells Sam and Dean, quite casually over dinner one night, that he’s relatively sure that the story is based on one of Gabriel’s earliest attempts at giving someone their just deserts before proceeding to tell both of them more than they ever wanted to know about the author’s life. Sam had looked like one of the foundational touch stones of his world had come crumbling down. Dean just said, “figures,” because scaring the shit out of some stingy bastard until he went insane and gave away all of his money sounded like something Gabriel would do. He could totally see Gabriel, decked out as the Ghost of Christmas Present, lounging on a mountain of candy. It was a mildly disturbing image. 

The lights are supposed to be a surprise for Cas. Dean, however, suspects that he already knows exactly what they’re planning to do, and went to read somewhere else so that Dean and Sam could have the chance for some “bonding time.” He seems to think that this is really important for them. He gets all earnest about making sure that the brothers feel “emotionally validated and supported,” and Dean mentally makes a note to steer him away from the self-help section at the library. 

Dean does have to hand it to Cas though, it is actually really nice to have some time alone with Sam, just the two of them. As they struggle with the lights, Dean keeps a healthy distance from the edge of the roof.

“Dude, can’t you like just reach this from the ground?”

“No, Dean, I cannot just reach the roof from the ground.”

It takes some negotiation and a lot of swearing. The task is not made any easier by gloves (or numb fingers when they take the gloves off to try for more dexterity). Dean is pretty damn sure that the lights and the roof have entered into to some evil pact to kill both the Winchester brothers. As much as Cas loves the lights, that’s about how much the lights hate Dean. It takes longer than they expected, and Dean has to repeatedly remind himself that if he can take on the apocalypse and face down the fucking devil, he can hang some mother-fucking Christmas decorations. They finally accomplish the task, and Sam goes in to grab some beers (and Cas would totally scold them both for drinking on the roof; he’s a little safety obsessed). They end up leaning against the shingles together in the frosty night just laughing and star gazing. It’s familiar and peaceful, like all those nights spent quietly on the hood of the Impala. 

“You know—” Sam breaks the silence after a while, “I, ah, never thanked you.”

Dean frowns, “For what?”

“For Christmas,” Sam shrugs.

“Dude, I owed you.”

“No, not just this year, Dean,” Sam nods a little and fiddles with the edge of his coat, “for when we were kids, too.”

“Sammy—” Dean starts, because he loves his brother, he really truly does. He has gone through hell for him and would do it all again in a heartbeat if it meant Sam’s safety and happiness, but he knows where this conversation is headed, and he would honestly much rather just sit in companionable silence than revisit—

“Dean, I’m serious, okay?” Sam continues, with that intense expression on his face. Cas would applaud his commitment to having a heart-to-heart moment, “You were a kid, too, but you, ah, you always tried to do right by me, and I never said thanks.”

Dean swallows against the lump in his throat, remembering Sammy, small and scrawny with his hair flopping in his eyes, still wanting to believe in Santa, always believing in Dean. His voice is gruff when he replies, “You were my kid brother; it’s my job, Sammy.”

“Shouldn’t have been,” Sam acknowledges. And Dean’s not gonna touch that with a ten foot pole. It doesn’t matter whether that should have been his job or not. Taking care of Sammy has been an integral part of him for so long, in every way, that it doesn’t matter how or when it had started—even if you could trace it back exactly to the night they lost their mother, the father they should have had, and their childhoods in one fell swoop, and Dean had promised that he would always look out for Sammy. If they couldn’t have a mom and a dad, then Dean would be both. 

He can’t say that. He can’t tell Sam how proud he is of the man he’s become, or how lost he’d be if he hadn’t had Sam to look out for, or how despite their bickering and their jokes, sometimes he still looks at Sam and he sees that little boy he used to be and he feels his heart constrict with just how much he loves him. He doesn’t say that trying to give Sam holidays as a kid was something that he wanted or even needed to do. That, if he could have, he would have given Sam the childhood he really deserved. Dean can’t say any of that, so instead he just stares into the distance, then up into the starry sky. It reminds him of Cas, who used to be infinite and fathomless as the universe, of his mom, who always told him that angels were watching over him, of his baby brother, who he used to tuck into bed. He’s filled with this overwhelming sense of nostalgia, of love, of the enormity and preciousness of his life, and the strangest sense of thankfulness to be here for this moment. He clasps Sam on the shoulder, and takes a pull from his beer. 

They sit like that a few minutes more. 

“I’m happy for you and Cas, ya know,” Sam offers.

Dean grins, a little embarrassed. 

“No really, Dean,” he says, “I’m proud of you.”

“Knock it off, Dr. Phil, you’re making me get all teary eyed,” he jokes, but inside he feels elated and humbled by his brother’s praise. Sam who can read Dean perfectly, knows this and takes that as the thank you it is. 

“You make each other happy,” he continues, refusing to stow the touchy-feely yoga crap, “that makes me happy, dude.”

“Yeah, well…” Dean trails off, and Sam looks like he’s trying to work out exactly how to say something.

“I don’t think you have to be so worried,” Sam finally remarks.

“About what?” 

“About breaking him or whatever,” Sam replies. 

“I’m not—”

Sam shrugs and gives Dean a dubious glance, “Cas says that sometimes he feels like you’re scared of him or something.”

“You two talk about me?” Why is he not surprised by this? Oh, yeah, because Sam and Cas are apparently playing tea-party and having girly chats while they practice their puppy eyes in the mirror all the better to gang up on him.

“Don’t get all weird about it, dude, we’re friends,” which, yeah, Dean can’t help but be happy about that, especially considering how Cas had spent the first part of his acquaintance with Sam looking at the kid like he was an abomination that needed to be wiped off the map. They’ve come a hell of a long way since then, “and you do do that. Look, man, Cas is not some fragile piece of glass or something, okay? He’s doing a lot better. I think he’s worried about freaking you out, so maybe try to stop acting like you’re gonna freak out every time he moves.”

“I just…I worry, man,” great, it’s contagious. 

Sam puts a hand on Dean’s arm; he’s got that super comforting expression he uses when he’s pretending to be a fed and listening to sob stories, only it’s really really genuine and really really concentrated. Dean squirms under Sam’s scrutiny; he’s not good at this shit, even if he’s trying. 

“I know, dude, but maybe stop sitting around waiting for everything to fall apart?” Dean gives Sam an incredulous stare (dude, have you seen our track record? Everything falls apart, every time, no exceptions); “I know that things always have in the past, all right? But maybe it can be better this time…hell, it already is. This is your chance to be happy, stop running from it.”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a few minutes; he just absorbs Sam’s advice. “It’s hard, man.”

“I know.” 

“People we lo—care about, they end up dead a lot.” He feels absurdly like everyone they’ve lost and the weight of that guilt and grief is hanging in the air between them. He thinks of Ellen and Jo, bleeding out, sacrificing themselves, of Ash and the Roadhouse in ruins, of their Dad dead in a hospital bed, of their mom, smoldering on the ceiling, of Sam stabbed in the back and bleeding out, of Cas repeatedly destroyed and returned, again and again, of Dean himself, dying a hundred thousand ways, literally to hell and back, of Jess on the ceiling, and pulling Sam away from the flames that burned her alive, of everyone they tried to but couldn’t save. They’re always there. Dean takes a pull from his beer. 

“Dude, I freaking know.” If anyone does, it’s Sam: he feels that weight too, maybe even more than Dean does. 

“But Cas is here,” Sam continues seriously, “and he’s not going anywhere, so maybe, stop worrying, stop running, and just enjoy it. You’re fucking lucky.” Because Sam couldn’t keep Jess…

“Thanks, Sam,” he offers, and he’s dubious, skeptical in the extreme, things never end well, never, but maybe Sam is right…

“Good,” Sam takes a drink, “that being said, you break his heart, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”

“Whoa, dude,” Dean is indignant; “you’re my brother.”

Sam laughs, “Yeah, but I know you both, and, of the two of you, you’re the most likely candidate for doing something colossally stupid, so don’t fuck it up.”

“No pressure,” Dean scoffs, he can’t believe this shit, even though, realistically, Sam’s evaluation is totally right, “Thanks for that, Sam, really nice, freakin’ traitor.”

“You’re welcome, hon,” Sam mocks.

“So how are things with you and that chick?” Dean asks, because fair is fair, and it’s the older brother’s prerogative to pry and then tease, especially when your younger brother is a self-professed self-help guru with boundary issues. 

But Sam is saved by Cas walking up the drive, bundled in his winter parka and scarf, he’s even wearing that damn hat; although, Dean knows he only put it on a block away so he wouldn’t get in trouble. 

Sam jumps to his feet to avoid the question, “Hey, Cas!” he shouts, “You like the lights?”

Cas is in silhouette, but he’s tilting his head back to get the full picture, “They’re very beautiful, Sam” he says seriously after a few moments consideration, “Now please come inside before you fall.”

Sam clambers though the window like an overgrown monkey, and Dean calls after him, “You got off this time, but don’t think we’re done here.” Sam laughs. 

“Come inside, Dean,” Cas says, he’s not shouting, but his rough voice carries. Dean shivers, not really from the winter night, he feels like he’s tuned to Cas, like he could hear him anywhere on any frequency. 

“Be right there,” Dean replies. He hears the front door open and close. Sam greets Cas and one of them turns on Christmas music (probably Sam; kid’s obsessed). There’s the carrying sound of them starting to prepare dinner in the kitchen: pots and pans clanging, their laughter ringing through the house. Dean smiles. He looks up at the night sky. He feels that same constriction in his chest, a longing, and he realizes that what he wants, he already has. It’s his family. It’s his over-grown baby brother, who calls him on his shit, and knows him inside and out. It’s his fallen angel, who is a constant wonder, who fits with Dean, who loves him not only despite, but because of everything he’s ever done or ever been. They’re inside right now, and Dean recognizes that maybe Sammy was right, maybe he doesn’t have to run away from happiness, from this good thing that he has, that he’s always wanted. And sure, maybe it’s not the picture he’s always had in his mind, and maybe it’s not perfect all the time, and maybe he didn’t get here the way he ever though he would, if he ever thought it was possible at all, but it’s real and it’s his, and he wouldn’t trade a damn thing about it for all the world. He takes a deep breath of the frosty night air, lets it go, and climbs into the warmth. 

He comes up behind Cas in the kitchen, who’s busy stirring something on the stove, and he slips his hands around his waist, moves till he’s flush against Cas’ back, and places a kiss on his neck.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas greets him, and Dean can hear the smile in his voice; he basks in it like a sunrise, and grins into the crook of Cas’ neck, where he places another kiss. 

“Hey, Cas,” he whispers.

“Your hands are freezing.”

“’Cause Sasquatch wanted to bond on the roof,” he jokes.

“Hey,” Sam protests.

“It’s abuse, Cas,” Dean continues.

Cas laughs, and Dean spins him around so that he can really kiss him, slow and lingering, taking in Cas’ warmth. The former-angel seems startled and pleased, and he leans into Dean.

“Guys, seriously, I am right here,” Sam interrupts, and Dean and Cas laugh, and they all go on to make dinner and plans for the week, and Dean thinks home so strongly that he can barely breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thank you for reading! So the next chapter is significantly longer, and significantly more Dean and Cas focused. There is angst. Until then, I hope that you're enjoying this story. Reviews would be wicked appreciated!


	4. Sleep in Heavenly Peace (One Week Till Christmas)

Sam refuses to have mistletoe in the house. "I'm happy for you two, really, I am, but you don't need an extra excuse." Which of course means that Dean goes out of his way to buy some—"You are aware that these berries are poisonous?" Cas asks—and hangs it in the doorway to the kitchen.

It's as good an excuse as any to give Cas a quick peck, or a lingering kiss, or throw him up against the archway and run his hands over the warm skin beneath Cas' assortment of sweaters. He gives himself extra points if Cas moans and double bonus points if Sam makes a gagging sound.

Dean has honestly been going slowly and carefully about the whole physical aspect of this new thing between him and Cas—testing the waters. He wants Cas, it burns in him, that want. If he's being totally honest, it has for years. And now that Cas is here and he's human and Dean can touch him, it's a different sort of desire, one that can actually be fulfilled. That being said: this is new, Cas is new. He's still raw in so many ways, and Dean doesn't want to fuck this up. He really, really wants to not fuck this up. On a regular basis, whenever he sees Cas, in any context, he thinks, "If I can please not fuck up one thing, just one thing in my life, please, let this be it."

Cas spent his first few weeks as a human, flinching away any time they tried to touch him. Physical contact was almost impossible for him to tolerate, which made Sam and especially Dean worry exponentially more. It also made taking care of the newly fallen angel unbelievably difficult. There had been a gradual, slow, transition for Cas towards becoming someone who sought touch, who needed to feel a connection to those around him. He still seems a bit unsure of what he's allowed to take, and Dean is not always sure of how much he wants. Cas said that falling was like having every nerve in his body scraped raw while simultaneously being rendered blind and deaf. Trading one set of senses for another…made sense. It sounded fucking terrible, and when Dean had said as much to Cas, the angel had laughed a little manically before sobering and looking despondent. Emotional overload was another big part of the early transition process.

Cas seems so much better now; he's more adjusted and calmer and he seems relatively happy, most of the time. Dean's being extra careful, cautious even, trying to let Cas take the lead so as not to chase him away. Sam keeps shooting him charged looks and variations of bitch faces all warning him not to fuck things up, and Dean really doesn't need the reminder. It's reassuring when Cas tries to catch Dean under the mistletoe, when he initiates in a way that is tentative and occasionally possessive and leaves Dean grinning like an idiot and aching for more.

Some things have been expressly forbidden this Christmas. Wreaths for instance. The supernatural is supposed to be over and it's not like they can't spot meadow sweet out of a line up, but the whole "pagan sacrifice thing" leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, and why test fate at this point. Another forbidden trapping of the season: chocolate chip cookies. This was (very) quietly discussed between Dean and Cas when the latter was trying to plan out holiday appropriate food items. Chocolate chips cookies remind Sam of Jess and there's no need dredge that up.

That doesn't, however, mean that all cookies are off the list, which is why Dean comes home with one week left to go before the holiday to be hit in the face with some awesome aromas wafting through the house.

"Dude," he says when he enters the kitchen, "It smells freakin awesome in here."

Cas looks up from the bowl he's stirring and smiles. He's got flour streaked on his cheek and dusting his hair and shirt. Dean walks over and brushes the smear away before giving Cas a quick kiss and shedding his coat.

"What're we making?" Dean asks, rolling up his sleeves and licking his lips. Cas looks incredulous and amused.

"Sugar cookies," he replies, "there's a tray in the oven." Dean moves to take them out. Cas has shaped them into traditional trees and stars. He's also gotten creative: there are some devils traps and an Enochian sigil or two. They're all dusted with red sugar crystals. Dean grins crookedly. He has to admit they're pretty damn perfect for their weird ass family. They also smell delicious.

"I like your style, Cas," he offers, placing the pan on the stove to cool, and dropping himself into a seat at the table opposite where Cas is still mixing the dough.

"Thank you…Sam intimated that these were traditional for Christmas celebrations," he looks up, fixing Dean with that impenetrable blue gaze, "we conversed at length to be sure that these would not upset him." Dean can easily imagine that conversation and he's glad that he wasn't a witness to it.

He sighs, "That's good, man. Where is he anyway?"

Cas gets a somewhat teasing glint in his eyes and there is a small smile on his lips. It's barely there, and Dean would miss it if he weren't looking for it, "He is out with Elizabeth."

"Again?" Dean can't quite hide his shock. This is what? Four times that he's heard of in as many weeks, not including whatever secret rendezvous he hasn't been made privy to. He feels like Cas is playing fairy godmother or at the very least wingman for Sam. Dean isn't sure if he feels proud or betrayed.

Cas keeps stirring, "He seems quite taken with her."

Dean grunts, "Whatever, dude. He's totally hiding this chick from us…" Cas rolls his eyes, exaggerating the gesture, "Are we even sure that she's real? I mean, she could be a figment of Sam's imagination—"

"Dean—" Cas begins in that "you think you're being funny, but you're actually being ridiculous, leave Sam alone" voice that only makes Dean continue. He likes to ruffle Cas' feathers, figuratively speaking.

"—I mean, come on, he meets some girl at the library? Who happens to share all his nerdy interests? And is supposedly hot? What are the odds? Poor kid's finally cracked. Wouldn't blame him, really—"

"Dean," Cas is glaring and making every effort not to show his amusement. Dean sees right through the front.

"—Mark my words, Cas, Sammy is probably sitting in some café talking to himself as we speak," he shakes his head in an embellished gesture of lament.

Cas sighs loudly and rolls his eyes again, "More likely, he is afraid that you will subject the poor woman to what passes for your deplorable sense of humor—"

"Cas, we both know that I'm hilarious," Dean retorts, mock offended.

"—or that you will regale her with embarrassing stories," Cas finishes.

Dean snorts, "That's my job."

"I thought you worked at—"

"Figure of speech. Don't get cute, man, I'm onto you," Dean brandishes an accusatory finger at Cas with a glare, and Cas gives Dean wide innocent eyes while simultaneously smirking. Cas' sense of humor involveddeadpan snark and occasionally pretending to take things literally in order to make others confused and uncomfortable. Real angelic behavior. "It's an older brother's prerogative to make fun of him in front of his girlfriend or whatever. Besides," Dean smirks, "what can I do: 'hi, Elizabeth, you know one time we were hunting a vampire in SC, Sam was maybe sixteen, just hit this terrible awkward growth spurt (kid was gawky as fuck), he tripped over his own two feet and face planted, literally face planted, freakin hysterical," it really was, retrospectively, "I can't exactly say that to her. Sam's mostly safe."

Cas gives Dean an eloquent stare that suggest Dean will find ways to embarrass Sam come hell or high water and they all know it, but he shrugs, "Perhaps he is just nervous that you won't like her."

Dean considers this, weighing Cas' tone, "Perhaps?" he prompts.

Lopsided smile, "He may have mentioned something to that effect."

Dean groans, just as he suspected, again with these two, "You want me to talk to him." Not a question a statement. Cas isn't gonna beat around the bush with this.

"Just be nice." Says the guy who at one point wanted to wipe towns off the map.

"I'm always nice," Dean protests.

Cas straight up guffaws, before schooling his expression back into solemnity, "Apologies." He is so not sorry.

Dean smiles ruefully, "I'm mostly nice."

"Dean Winchester, you are a ray of sunshine to all peoples," Cas intones.

"Sarcasm."

"Yes."

They both laugh.

It's warm in the kitchen and comfortable. Cas rolls out the dough. Dean's attempts to craft recognizable shapes makes him laugh ("Dude, I can draw blood sigils in dead languages, make an EMF detector out of a Walkman, and fucking rebuild the Impala, but fucking cookie dough, man," "That very nearly resembles a star, Dean," "Don't patronize me, Cas!" "Fine, it is a shapeless mass," "Damn it, Cas!"). They joke about the mess that they're making. Dean is just as liberally coated in sugar and flour as Cas is before long. They share details of their day and speculate about what they are planning to get Sam for Christmas and whether Bobby will like the tree. When Dean asks if he can put on some music and tentatively turns on a rock station, Cas is relieved to have a change from the Christmas tunes ("Sam has become very fixated. The repetition is both soothing and grating"). They put the last batch of cookies in the oven, but Dean makes Cas try some dough ("this is not recommended by medical professionals" "it's the best part, Cas"), Dean scoops some of the stuff onto his finger and offers it to Cas, who caves, taking the digit into his mouth and scraping of the sugary substance with teeth and tongue. Dean swallows hard. Cas admits that it is good, and Dean licks his own lips and nods ("told ya").

They're cleaning up the kitchen (Dean washes, and Cas dries), speculating about what Sam and his mystery girl are up to, when something occurs to Dean.

"Is that something you want?" he asks.

Cas looks absolutely bewildered.

"I mean," god he's like a fucking teenage girl asking her crush to the prom, "like dating."

Hurt flashes briefly in Cas' eyes, before he carefully blankets his expression, "I do not understand," he admits carefully, "Do you not—" Want me? Like me? Care about me anymore? Dean can fill in all the possibilities and he wants to hit himself in the face repeatedly with the mixing bowl he's washing.

"Fuck, I'm doing this wrong," Dean says, and Cas just looks more confused, "I'm trying to ask if you want to go on a date…with me," he adds, just in case that wasn't clear the second time.

"A date?" Cas' eyes are wide and his brow is furrowed. Like Dean is speaking Ancient Greek, only not, because Cas would probably understand what Dean was saying if he were speaking that instead of the garbled emotionally repressive English he's currently using.

"We could," Dean looks down and away, licks his lips, god fucking damn it he actually just shuffles his fucking feet. Civilian life, is getting to him, all that self-help yoga shit from Sam is contagious, "you know, go and get dinner or see a movie or, you know, something—why are you laughing?"

"Dean," Cas takes his hand, "We already do those things together."

"Well, yeah, but—" I want you to feel special. I want to make you happy. I want to show you that I love you even if that means me acting like an idiot and going to some fancy ass restaurant where I have to wear a tie and shit. Cas covers Dean's mouth with his hand before he can say any of those things, or travel too far down the dark pit of self-loathing where he tends to live. Cas usually catches him and pulls him back from that edge.

He regards Dean extremely seriously and emphasizes each word with precision: all the better to get his message through Dean's thick skull, "I am sharing my life with you, Dean," he is intent and focused, "For as long as you will have me. That is what matters. I do not have any regards for these absurd mating rituals," Dean rolls his eyes, because he doesn't really know how else to react to the fact that Cas basically called him his life-mate or whatever the Enochian translation is, "I do not care what we do. Provided we do it together." Cas levels him with a stare, "Do you understand?" Dean gives a short, sharp nod, and Cas removes his hand, leans forwards, and captures Dean's mouth with his own. Dean thinks, forever, Cas, stay forever. He feels a little overwhelmed.

Cas pulls back and catches Dean's wrist, "If it will make you happy, we can 'date,'" he has an indulgent look that says he'll play along with a human ritual he finds ridiculous if it will make Dean happy.

"I'll show you a good time, Cas," Dean promises.

Tonight though, they end up sitting on the sofa, watching Die Hard II ("hey, it's a Christmas movie: there's snow and everything"), and eating leftover pizza. The Christmas lights are on at Cas' insistence, and they cast a soft multi-colored glow over the room. Cas is smiling pointing out inconsistences in the movie, and Dean thinks this is better than any five-star restaurant.

When Sam comes home, it's to Cas and Dean making out on the sofa. He has no room to judge, not to go by the state of his hair. He joins them for the last half hour of the film, and Dean teases and pries until Sam promises to bring Elizabeth around for New Year's. Cas looks annoyed beyond all reason that there is another holiday to prepare for ("the passage of time is a purely human construct meant to elucidate the vast incomprehensibility of the universe" "thanks for that, Cas" "must we really mark this with a celebration?" "yes, if it means we finally get to meet Sam's imaginary friend" "dude, for the last time, she is a real person!" "pictures or real life evidence, or you got nothing, Sammy" "I hate everything."). Dean promises that he'll be on his best behavior, and Sam looks annoyed but can't totally repress that joyful puppy look on his face. Cas falls asleep on the sofa, and Dean doesn't want to wake him. He rarely rests easily, so when Dean decides it's time for bed, he lays a flannel blanks over Cas' sleeping form, brushing his hand over his hair and kissing his forehead. Sam gives him a sappy smile.

"Shut up, Bitch," Dean shrugs, if you can't kiss your boyfriend goodnight in your own damn house, there is something wrong with the universe.

"You're adorable." Dean gives Sam a shove and a crooked grin.

Up in his room, Dean throws on some sweats and an old hoodie that has alternatively been his and Sam's over the years and crawls into bed.

He wakes to a soft knock at his door and he's on his feet and in a fighting stance before he can process the sound. Old habits. He realizes where he is and he rubs his eyes. Cas is standing the doorway, a blanket draped over his shoulders, eyes hooded, shuffling his feet.

"Hey, Cas," Dean whispers, voice rough with sleep.

"I'm sorry to have woken you."

"Doesn' matter," Dean glances at the clock, it's just gone three. He rubs his eyes again, "C'mere." He sits down on the edge of his bed and pats the empty space next to him. Cas hesitates on the threshold before crossing the room to join Dean.

Now that he's closer, Dean can tell that he's shivering and that his eyes are wild. There are tear tracks reflected in the soft glow of the clock

"Hey," Dean reaches for Cas, his hands brushing his shoulders his face; checking for injury or illness. Cas flinches hard—and Dean freezes—before he leans towards the touch, "Hey," Dean repeats, there's an edge of nerves to his voice, "Cas, what's up?"

"Nightmare," He answers, raw and broken, his eyes shut tight.

Dean usually hears when Cas has a bad dream, leaves his door cracked open specifically for that purpose. But Cas usually sleeps across the hall, not on the first floor.

Dean moves closer and he wraps his arms around Cas, brushing his hands over his hair, making shushing noises when Cas buries his face in Dean's shoulder.

Dean knows better than to ask what it was about. He waits, while Cas shakes and takes deep ragged gulps of air, his fingers biting desperately into Dean's skin.

"I'm sorry," Cas apologizes and moves to pull back (maybe embarrassed or unwilling to unburden himself to Dean), but Dean won't let him go, he holds him in place because something in Dean breaks when Cas says he's sorry for something that is so not his fault.

"Don't be, okay?"

"It was dark," Cas sounds wrecked, "I dreamed that—" his voice catches, "we were in hell and I lost you," he says, "I could not find you and my wings were burning in the darkness."

Shit. Fuck. Fucking son of a bitch. Dean wants to kill someone or something for doing this to Cas. The impotent rage boils in him, but he just grits his teeth and rubs slow circles on Cas' back. Sam is right, Cas is fine tuned to Dean's moods and the last thing he needs right now is to take on Dean's fucking rage. Cas recoils again, at the contact on his back, from the memory and the dream of his burning wings. Dean continues his ministrations, slowly, and Cas starts to relax against him, his breathing evening out.

"I lost you," he repeats.

"You didn't," Dean whispers, "I'm right here."

"I lost you," Cas says again, "and when I woke you were gone and I didn't know where I was—" Dean can hear the panic creeping back into Cas' voice and he curses himself for leaving him an unfamiliar space alone in the dark. That was monumentally stupid.

He forces Cas to look at him. Both of his hands holding his face, while Cas' clutches at Dean's arms, one hand fastened tightly over the mark on Dean's shoulder, the other gripping his wrist.

"Cas," Dean tries to catch Cas' gaze, tries to capture his wide, wild eyes with his own, "Cas, look at me, hey, look at me, Cas." They've done this so many times, brought each other back from nightmares and memories and everything in between in the dead of night, "Cas, I'm right here, okay? Right here," Cas fixes his gaze on Dean and he nods slowly, like he wants to believe what Dean is saying, but doesn't dare to trust.

"You're here," Cas echoes, like the phrase is a benediction, a prayer that will save him from damnation. His wings are gone, and his grace, but he's not in hell, that shit's done. They're safe. They're together.

"That's right," Dean smoothes his hand against Cas' cheek, his forehead, his sweat dampened hair, "We're together. We're home. No one is lost." Not right now, not ever again if Dean has any say in it.

Cas nods, and Dean can see a muscle twitch in his jaw.

"It's okay," he soothes.

Cas leans forward till his forehead rests on Dean's and he sighs. His grip loosens marginally, but he maintains contact, perhaps afraid to let go, lest Dean disappear, or lest this is the dream and Cas will wake to find himself in hell burning and lost. Dean knows that feeling, in the early morning not knowing what's real and what's not.

"I do not like sleep," Cas confesses. Dean doesn't blame him.

"I know," he breathes a sigh.

"C'mon," he throws back the covers on his bed and pulls Cas downs with him until Cas is spooned against his front and their hands are clasped against Cas' chest. Dean draws the blankets over them until they're wrapped in a cocoon, shielded from the world.

He places a kiss at the base of Cas' neck, "I'm not gonna leave you, Cas," he whispers into his hair, "Stay with me." Cas squeezes his fingers more tightly. They drift to sleep like that, holding each other's nightmares at bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for taking the time to read this story! The next installment, unlike the previous chapters, will pick up immediately after this one with Dean and Cas in bed. I hope you're enjoying this story so far! More soon.


	5. When It Snows (Still One Week Till Christmas)

When Dean wakes next, his face is pressed into the nape of Cas’ neck, his hand against his chest. There’s a soft gray light in the room. He opens one eye, then the other, and squints at the window. It’s snowing, pretty hard by the look of it. He groans and buries his face in Cas’ shoulder. That’s not the only thing that’s hard. Fuck. Dean tries to pull back slightly, because, yeah, he’s not going to molest Cas in his sleep, but doing so only causes Cas to move closer to Dean. The former-angel blinks his eyes, bleary, then confused, before focusing on Dean’s face. 

“Good morning, sleepy head,” Dean greets, kissing Cas, his stubble rasping against Dean’s own. 

“Morning,” Cas returns, tilting his head in silent question.

“It’s snowing,” Dean nods towards the window.

“Hmm,” Cas agrees blearily, “white Christmas.”

“Yeah,” Dean is still leaning over Cas, their faces scant inches apart. Cas’ stare is intent, and Dean glances at his lips then back.

“Dean—” Cas says his voice rough, and Dean wants to dive in, to claim Cas, but instead, he pulls away, ruffling Cas’ hair. 

What the fuck are you doing?! A voice is screaming in his head, but Dean pastes on a smile and sits up, throwing on a discarded hoodie. Cas looks bewildered, and slightly crestfallen. Dean pats his knee (Seriously, man, what the FUCK are you doing?!). Cas is staring at him confused, and Dean isn’t sure how fake his own smile looks, but it’s hurting his cheeks.

“C’mon, dude,” he prods, jovial to the point of disbelief, “snow day. Get up.” He cannot believe that he is telling Cas to get out of bed, when he really would prefer to throw him back down into the mattress. Screw the snow, screw himself, definitely, literally, screw Cas. 

“Dean—” Cas begins, reaching for Dean’s hand, but the hunter launches himself to his feet before he can complete the motion.

“C’mon,” he tells Cas, as he moves swiftly from the room, “breakfast in five.”

He’s out the door, through the hall, down the stairs, and slumped in a chair in the kitchen in less than a minute flat. He thinks he might be having a panic attack, which is just so not right (though, legitimately, it would be some emotionally induced altercation that would cause professional monster hunter Dean Winchester to have a complete breakdown). After all the Sammy counseling, and Bobby lecturing, and heart-to-heart conversations with Cas, and epic self-talk about not running away, he’s pretty damn positive that that is exactly what he had just done. Literally, he just ran away from Cas and the perfect goddamn opportunity that Cas was initiating. He groans and slams his face onto the table. 

“Dude, are you okay?” Dean sits up quickly, smiling brightly: Sam, perfect. He’s regarding his older brother with a furrowed brow.

“Morning, Sammy,” Dean stands and moves to make coffee, “Want some breakfast?”

“Uh, sure,” Sam’s tone is suspicious and he’s frowning at Dean’s megawatt smile.

“Did you see that it snowed, man?” Dean continues, grabbing pancake mix from the cabinet and milk from the fridge, even though Dean never cooks breakfast, ever, “It’s a freakin’ blizzard—”

“Dean—”

“—so I figured, you know, we’d take Cas out to make snow angels or whatever—” Dean rambles as he measures and stirs, still with that freaky smile.

“—are you—?” Sam tries

“—cause that’s what people do when it snows, right? Actually, know what? Scrap the snow angels; forts: we should totally build an igloo—” the batter sizzles when it hits the griddle.

“Actually, dude, I’m pretty sure normal people just bitch about being cold and shovel their sidewalks,” Sam corrects.

“Whatever, sounds good,” Dean shrugs, wielding a spatula. Sam eyes it warily.

“Dean, are you okay?” Sam solicits earnestly.

“I’m fine, Sammy,” Dean fairly snarls, still beaming. The juxtaposition is startling, and Sam now knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that something is wrong. Before he can say anything, Cas shuffles into the kitchen, fully dressed. Dean turns back to the pancakes before he can make eye contact, and Sam looks between the two of them like there is the possibility of an impending explosion and he’s trying to diffuse the bomb.

“Morning, Cas,” he offers, grabbing orange juice and some glasses. 

“Good morning, Sam,” Cas returns quietly. Dean shoulders hunch, his spine is tense and rigid. He can hear Cas gathering plates and utensils for breakfast. 

When Dean finishes cooking, placing a stack of fluffy pancakes on the table, Sam regards Dean like he’s a startled animal on the verge mauling someone. Cas gazes resolutely out the window at the snow. 

“Is this the customary repast for a ‘snow day’?” he asks. Sam is clearly making some mental calculations about Cas’ demeanor. Dean knows he’s only a few moments from some serious judgment raining down on his own head. 

“Hell if I know,” he says, “but eat up, dude.”

Thankfully breakfast isn’t burnt. Cas is extremely composed; he’s extra quiet. Dean is still jumpy, and Sam continues to look between the two of them. 

Cas washes the dishes; Dean goes upstairs to get dressed. He’s pulling on his boots when Sam comes up to find him. 

“What did you do?” he asks from the doorway. 

“Nothing,” it’s honest. He had done nothing. That’s the problem. Well that and freaking the fuck out this morning. 

Sam does not buy it, “Dude, whatever the fuck you did, you need to fix it.”

Don’t I know it, Dean thinks, but out loud he retorts a gruff “Whatever, Sammy,” as he brushes past his brother, avoiding his puppy eyes, “c’mon, man.”

Dean’s manic energy grates on Sam, but ultimately proves infectious (though it does not stop the constant stream of bitch faces over the course of the day). They’ve got Cas bundled up in layers; they’re all wearing heavy winter jackets and hats and scarves. Cas looks like an extremely stoic blue marshmallow, but Dean does not point this out (he’s treading on thin ice literally and metaphorically). He does tell Sam that he looks like an overgrown pillow. Sam is not amused. 

When Cas steps out into the falling snow, he is contemplative. He gazes up at the sky, flakes catching in his eyelashes and on his cheeks. 

“Like this,” Dean says, tilting his own face skyward and sticking out his tongue.

Cas seems wary of Dean and cautious, like Dean or the weather itself might be attempting to poison him, but, after a moment, he follows suit, tilting his face skyward, catching snowflakes on his tongue. 

“It tastes like winter,” he says with wonder after a moment. Dean laughs at the declaration, but turns somber at Cas’ fixed stare. This is a milestone, he’s sharing it with Dean, even after Dean had freaked the fuck out, and Dean reaches for Cas’ gloved hand.

“Cas—” he starts before a snowball catches him in the face. Goddamn it, Sammy. Dean should really have been less surprised. He had it coming. Sam guffaws, until Dean catches him on the shoulder with another chunk of snow and ice.

Dean expects Cas to have an “I don’t understand the point of this human ritual” moment; he does not expect the precision hit by the former angel. Cas smirks, and Dean snarls “That’s it!” Soldiers of heaven are apparently trained in all manner of weapons, including snow. Dean really doesn’t stand a chance. It turns into a free for all. Throwing snow at Dean improves Cas’ mood and Sam’s; it even improves Dean’s, and they all eventually collapse in a heap laughing. 

Sam shows Cas how to make a snow “fairy” (“dude it was the best I could think of, okay? They kinda look like fairies” “Or overgrown vultures.” “Jerk.”). Cas seems to find it amusing. They’re set to make a snow fort until Dean realizes that “there is not enough snow in the freaking artic to build an igloo big enough for gigantor over here.” 

“Hey!” Sam is affronted.

“I do not want Sam to feel excluded from this winter ritual,” Cas says, placating Sam’s ire and agreeing with Dean at the same time. It’s kind of miraculous how he manages to do that.

“Thanks, Cas,” Sam sighs. Dean smirks in triumph until Sam slips some snow down the back of his neck at which point he yelps (in a totally manly fashion) and yells, “not cool, dude,” before they reinitiate their snowball fight. 

After they call a ceasefire, Dean suggests they build a snowman. “We know it doesn’t actually look like a person, Cas,” Sam interjects before Cas can take it too literally—he had looked troubled by the prospect of constructing an anatomically correct human figure from freshly fallen snow. Their version is more in the vein of giant snow balls stacked atop one another. They dress it in a flannel shirt and one of Bobby’s ratty old hats and make a face out of some random food items. It looks a little demented and they send Bobby a picture message (his response is “where did you idjits find the snow demon?”). 

When they’re all chilled to the bone and soaking wet with melted snow, flushed with exertion and from the cold, they head inside. Cas’ nose is red and his eyes are bright. He’s actually having fun, and it makes Dean’s heart clench. They pile their snow gear by the door and change into dry clothes. Sam puts on The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. Cas turns the tree lights on and then sits on the sofa with his knees pulled up to his chest. Dean makes them all rice and tomato soup. Sam gets a soft nostalgic smile on his face. Dean used to make this for him when they were kids. Cas, knowing that Mary had made this for Dean as a child, accepts his bowl solemnly. 

When Sam dozes off in the afternoon, Dean very quietly and very carefully places a pair of felt reindeer antlers that he bought at the gas station on his brother’s head before taking a picture with his phone.

Cas rolls his eyes, trying to suppress a smile, but Dean knows that it’s there. 

“It’s only fair,” he argues, because he and his brother have an ongoing battle here. 

Cas just nods. He’s still maintaining a careful distance. When Sam wakes, he notes this, and gives Dean four bitch faces in rapid succession: #45 you don’t get to upset my friend and get away with it; #362 you had better fix this, you insensitive dick; #63 whatever the hell happened, it’s because you were being a douche: what did I say about fucking this up?; #79 your emotional immaturity never fails to astound me. Dean has no ready defense to any of these, so he shrugs and smiles in what he hopes is a charming way; Sam glares. 

The snow continues to fall. Dean goes to do what “normal people” do when it snows: i.e. shovel the sidewalks (thankfully, there’s already enough salt on the perimeter that laying more out is not really an issue). 

They watch some more holiday specials (“hey, dude, it’s not Christmas without Dr. Sexy!”); and The Muppet Christmas Carol. Cas finds puppets bewildering if not outright disturbing. Sam’s theory is that it has something to do with possession and vessels, and Dean’s not convinced he’s wrong, but he loves the really confused angel head-tilt Cas gets when he’s trying to understand something he finds really weird. Cas makes hot chocolate. Sam cooks mac and cheese for dinner. Sam and Cas plan the Christmas menu. It keeps snowing. They watch A Christmas Story. Dean goes out to shovel again. When he comes back in, Sam is drinking a beer.

“Where’s Cas?”

“He went to his room,” Sam stares pointedly at Dean.

“Oh.” Dean tries not to sound worried or disappointed and fails epically. 

“Dude,” Sam says, when Dean looks longingly at the stairs, “What’s going on with you two?”

“Remember when you were all, Dean, don’t run away?” Dean gives a shifty grin.

“Dude! Are you kidding me?”

“I know, all right,” Dean says, flopping onto the sofa. 

“Dean, you are my brother, and I love you, but you’re an idiot,” Dean glares, “you love him, and for whatever insane reason, Cas tolerates you,” Dean huffs a laugh, “now get your head out of your ass, and go make things right.”

“Real comforting, Sammy.” Thank you.

“Just go, ass hat.” You’re welcome, now don’t screw this up.

Dean walks up the stairs with his heart pounding in his chest. Cas’ door is closed tight. Dean stands in front of it and he shuffles a bit, licks his lips, before he knocks, hesitant, nervous. Man up, Winchester.

“Cas?” he calls after a second.

He opens the door. Cas’ room is Spartan. The floor is hardwood and the walls are painted a cool green. There is a bed, a desk, and a bookshelf and not much else. Where Dean’s room is an exercise in controlled chaos and Sam’s is meticulously organized, Cas’ is relatively bare and simple. Cas is seated on the floor with his legs crossed and his hands resting lightly on his knees. When he hears the door open, his eyes snap open, and he slides easily to his feet in a fluid motion. There is a weird moment where Dean’s brain overlaps present Cas, his Cas, with the yoga orgy guy from 2014 and he feels shaken and more nauseous than he had before. 

“Hello, Dean.”

“Can we talk?” his life is a romcom, a tragic, fucked up, romcom and there is no way out. 

Cas considers this. “Of course.”

Dean takes a deep breath and closes the door. Cas is standing near the desk. Its surface is cluttered with books and papers and assorted things that Cas has picked up: there is a pinecone, a knitted scarf, a seashell. He’s waiting for Dean to say something. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean blurts out. Smooth. Really smooth. 

Cas’ narrows his eyes and tilts his head, he’s pursing his lips, “What are you sorry for?”

Right. You’ve got this, Dean. He rubs the back of his hair and bites his lip. “For bailing on you…you know, uh, this morning.”

Cas doesn’t say a word. It’s awkward as fuck in here. Dean can feel the tension like a tangible thing in the air between them. 

“I freaked out, okay?” Dean says. He is clearly very graceful with this shit. He mentally kicks himself. Please, don’t fuck this up, please, do not let me fuck this up. “I freaked out and I bailed. I’m sorry.”

Cas takes a deep breath. He’s staring at Dean’s open face like he’s trying to see through him. It’s familiar and disconcerting and nerve wracking all at once.

Dean waits and Cas sighs; he’s pretty sure that the former angel is reciting the Enochian version of the serenity prayer in his head before speaking. “You are infuriating,” he finally declares. 

“Yeah, I—” Dean begins, but Cas cuts him off with swift efficiency.

“No,” Cas doesn’t look wrathful, he doesn’t look confused, he’s not angry, or uncertain, he’s definitely not happy. Dean isn’t quite sure what that expression is. Determined maybe. Purposeful. Human and angel at the same time, “you, Dean Winchester, are infuriating. I am not a child—”

“Cas, I know—”

“Dean, listen to me,” Dean’s mouth snaps shut, “I am not a child. I am older than the human conception of time, but this is—new to me in many ways,” Cas pauses, “You are not the only one who is ‘freaking out’ as you say. Did you not think of this?”

“Cas—” because, yeah, Dean thinks about that constantly, but also not at all. He feels like a dick.

“It is…overwhelming, Dean,” Cas intones, focused, “it is confusing. In many ways, you make this experience easier. Often, like last night, you make it better,” Cas pauses again, “But you also make it more difficult.”

Dean bites his lip. He doesn’t want to make things worse. 

“Dean, I know that you are ‘scared,’” Cas says gently, “but I know what I want,” his impenetrable stare is fixed on Dean, and the hunter catches his breath, “Do you?”

Dean swallows. Hard. “Yeah, Cas,” he replies, voice gruff, “I—I know what I want.”

“Are you certain?” Cas asks as Dean walks closer to him. Cas’ fingers flex by his side.

Dean reaches out a hand and traces Cas’ lip with his thumb. Cas mouth parts slightly. They passed the point of no return long ago. It’s time they made it official. “Yeah,” Dean tells him, “yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Cas breathes.

“Okay,” He responds and then he leans in to claim Cas’ lips with his own. Dean had thought Cas would be hesitant, uncertain even, but he’s not. Not even close. He’s reaching for Dean in almost desperation. His hands are under Dean’s shirt and his fingers are leaving tracks on his back. 

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean says and his hips buck forward of their own volition, slotting against Cas’ and there is a moment where they both freeze and lock eyes. Dean can feel Cas’ erection against his thigh. 

“Cas, d’you—”

“Yes,” Cas leans forward and kisses Dean hard, pushing him back until they land in a stumbling flurry of limbs on his bed. 

Part of Dean thinks that he should stop this, make sure that Cas is okay, that he’s certain, that he really wants this, wants Dean. Give him a final chance to take an out to run away. Part of Dean can’t help but think that he’s making a career of defiling angels, and Jesus, that is so wrong. Cas is going to regret this. He’s going to realize that staying with Dean, being with Dean, is the biggest mistake of his life. Dean should be the better man here by recognizing that he’s the shittiest person ever. He should back off, get up, get out, leave, and let Cas escape while he still can. That would be the right thing to do, the responsible thing, the mature thing. But there’s another part, a selfish part, the part of him that is running one hand over Cas’ chest, another over Cas’ thigh. The part that is cataloguing the noises Cas makes and the hazy/hungry look in his eyes, and is kissing him back just as fiercely, possessive, demanding and meeting him thrust for thrust. Giving as good as he’s getting and desperately wanting to touch Cas, to take him, to mark him, to keep him. That part knows that he might be damned for this, but he wants Cas. He wants Cas more than he has ever wanted anyone or anything and for inexplicable reason Cas wants him back. 

Cas pulls Dean’s shirt over his head and reaches for the buttons of his jeans while Dean presses a kiss to the base of jaw.

“Wait,” Dean says, stilling Cas hands, pulling back. Cas’ pupils are blown wide. His hair is a complete mess, his lips swollen from Dean’s mouth. It’s hot as fuck. Cas’ gaze is hazy with lust and Dean kisses him on the mouth, lingering with his tongue, taking his time. 

“Dean,” Cas moans, their hips grind together. Dean tugs Cas’ bottom lip with his teeth.

“Let me take care of you,” Dean whispers, voice husky.

“I want—” 

Dean is kissing and licking and biting his way down the slope of Cas’ neck, across the taut expanse of his bare chest. When he takes Cas’ nipple between his teeth, Cas hisses sharply. Dean looks up, smirking and wild, and Cas leans forward, taking Dean’s face in his hands, kissing him fiercely all teeth and tongue. Dean leans into it, let’s his hands trail down Cas’ stomach, feels the muscles of his abs clench and shudder beneath his fingers. Cas bites Dean’s lower lip and Dean grins into his mouth. He traces his thumb just above the waist of Cas’ jeans, teasing. 

“Let me take care of you, Cas,” he repeats, his voice is husky and he feels high, drunk on Cas’ kisses and the heat of his skin. Cas’ eyes barely have any blue in them at all right now; they’re wide, his cheeks are flushed, his lips bruised. 

“Dean, please—” Cas pleads, and that’s all Dean needs before he’s kissing Cas fierce and possessive. Cas’ fingers are digging into Dean’s shoulder. Dean hisses sharply when his hand closes over the brand. He undoes the buttons on Cas’ jeans, reaching inside and freeing his cock. Cas inhales sharply at Dean’s touch.

“I’ve got you,” Dean whispers. Cas is hard as fuck. His cock is flushed, the head leaking precum. Dean smears the beaded liquid with his thumb. Cas throws his head back and Dean smiles, feral. Cas is gorgeous, he’s wrecked and sweating, and he’s Dean’s. He sucks at the base of Cas’ throat as he starts to stroke him. His hips thrusting against Cas’ thigh of their own volition as Cas jerk up into his hand. He starts of teasing; his touch light, tracing the vein with his forefinger, circling the head with his thumb, but then Cas says something that isn’t even in English and he grabs Dean’s face in his hands and kisses him sharply. 

“Please,” he says, and then “Dean.” And Dean’s resolve to go slowly comes completely undone. Dean’s strokes become harder, faster, he increases the friction; Cas’ hips thrust up into hand becoming more erratic and desperate. He’s biting his lip as Dean kisses along his jaw, still grinding against Cas’ hip but hardly aware that he’s doing it. Cas is so close. So close. He’s muttering nonsense. No, it’s Enochian, Dean corrects somewhere in the part of his brain that’s still online. 

They’re both panting, hot. 

“Dean,” Cas growls, and then something that Dean doesn’t understand. Dean, kisses Cas’ mouth, and Cas opens his eyes to meet Dean’s, “Let go, Cas,” he’s stroking faster harder, “I’ve got you, let go.” And Cas comes, with a shuddering gasp and Dean’s name on his lips. Dean continues to stroke Cas through his climax, spilling wet and hot over Dean’s hand; Cas says his name like a benediction and that’s all it takes before Dean’s comes hard against Cas’ thigh, his face pressed into the slope of his shoulder, still in his jeans. 

When Dean finally catches his breath, he pulls back enough to see Cas, who blinks at him with wonder, like he’s amazed, like Dean is some kind of miracle. He traces the contours of Dean’s face with his fingertips. Dean smiles, slow and lazy and totally content. Cas presses his mouth to Dean’s with a tender solemnity. 

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Dean grins, slightly delirious; he kisses the tip of Cas’ nose. He grabs his discarded shirt and wipes of his hand, and Cas’ bare chest. He’s going to have to change his pants, which are damp and sticky, but that can wait. He lies back down so that he and Cas are facing each other. Cas has his back to the wall. He runs his fingers through Cas’ hair down his side, until it rests on Cas’ hip. Cas has this small satisfied smile on his face and Dean leans forward and kisses him. Cas is beautiful. Well, he’s always beautiful, but right now, he’s a special type of beautiful that belongs solely to Dean. 

“What was it that you said?” he asks as he runs his hand through Cas’ sweat damp hair.

“Hmm?” Cas is blissed out, it’s awesome. 

Dean smirks maybe a little proud, “when you lost the ability to speak English. Were you dirty talking in angel?”

Cas blushes, a pink flush high on his cheekbones. He repeats the words again. 

“What does it mean?”

Cas fixes his eyes on Dean, he reaches out and places his hand on Dean’s bare chest, his fingers spread wide. 

“Roughly translated, it means ‘beloved one,’” he says and Dean is pretty sure that Cas might have felt his heart skip. Dean swallows past the lump in his throat; he leans forward and captures Cas’ mouth with his own. 

Later that night, they will get cleaned up. Dean will sneak past a snoring Sammy to the kitchen for some provisions, which they’ll eat in Cas room. Dean will teach Cas the joys of blowjobs and when Cas returns the favor, he will discover that what Cas lacks in experience, he apparently makes up for in enthusiasm and natural talent because jesus fuck. They will fall asleep tangled up together, snow still falling outside the window, enveloped in a warm nest of blankets and limbs. When they go downstairs the following morning, Cas with several visible bite marks, Dean with a grin of pure satisfaction and a hickey on his neck, Sam will look at them both, smile brightly and say that he’s making waffles because he’s “sure you guys worked up an appetite.” Dean will grin wolfishly and ruffle Cas’ hair, Cas will give him a lopsided smile, and Sam will mutter something that sounds remarkably like “idiots” and “thank god for thick walls.” Dean will kiss Cas’ neck and he hear Sam’s eye roll. Kid’s not wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this is so late. The holidays did not afford me much time to write, but if the gods are good this will be finished before Valentine's Day. THANK YOU for taking the time to read this. I originally wasn't going to include actual smut in this fic, I rarely publish the smut I write, so I hope it was okay. Also, I would love to hear what you think of this story so far. Reviews are wicked appreciated. I hope you all had a lovely holiday season. More to come soon.


	6. Angels We Have Heard (Christmas Eve)

Bobby shows up the morning of the twenty-fourth. He’s accompanied by six more inches of snow, a duffle bag (that’s presumably full of plaid shirts), and a non-descript cardboard box. He shrugs out of his coat, tosses his duffle to Dean, gives the box to Cas, and sinks into the arm chair that is unofficially his whenever he visits. Sam brings a fresh pot of coffee and a box of donuts in from the kitchen. 

Dean perches on the arm of the sofa. Bobby stretches, and his spine makes an audible pop. Dean winces in sympathy: god knows he loves his baby, but in his personal experience, driving in holiday traffic and snow for several hours does nothing for your back, your ass, or your mood. 

“How was the trip?” Sam asks, passing a cup of the steaming liquid to Bobby.

The old hunter gives him a look, “Damn idjits don’t know how to drive. Inch of ice they act like it’s the damn apocalypse.”

The brothers both smirk at his orneriness. Cas, who has until this point been hovering near the tree, still holding the box that Bobby brought with him, shakes himself from his reverie enough to come over and sit next to Dean on the sofa. Dean peers down at the box that Cas is clutching, somewhat reverently, and sees that it has faded and distinctly feminine handwriting on the lid, quite different from Bobby’s usual scrawl. It simply reads Xmas Ornaments, and Dean suddenly remembers that Bobby, unlike the Winchester boys and Cas, has celebrated normal Christmases in his life, quite a few of them actually, before his world went to hell. It occurs to Dean that this box is a remnant from another time, one in which Bobby’s wife had packed up Christmas ornaments in the attic for a coming holiday she would never see. He swallows a lump in this throat thinking of Karen’s happy face and a younger less damaged Bobby. 

He looks up to see the old hunter staring straight at him. 

“It’s a good tree you boys got,” he allows, taking a sip of his coffee, “but it looks a little bare.”

Dean briefly wonders what it would be like to go through boxes set aside by someone he loved who had died tragically. Then he realizes that he doesn’t have to wonder: he knows…intimately. His mind goes back to the day that Sam died. The scattered snapshots of memory that he retains through the shock and grief of digging clean clothes out of Sam’s duffle, of dressing his brother’s corpse in a clean shirt. The pain is still sharp. 

He glances away from Bobby to Cas and realizes that of all the times that Cas had died—and realistically it has happened way too many times—there had been nothing left of him at all…just some sticky residue splattered across dilapidated walls and an empty field. He swallows hard and contemplates which would be worse: having remnants of someone you loved and lost or nothing at all. He skirts away from the images and memories and terrifying predictions before he can think too much about it, acknowledging that both are fucking terrible—and he would really prefer to never find out. He looks back at Bobby with new respect. 

Dean smiles tightly at Sam and rests his hand on the back of Cas’ neck, thankful that they’re both here in one piece. Cas seems to be having similar thoughts because he leans into Dean’s touch with a sigh, running his fingers gently over the lid of the box before offering Bobby a very solemn thank you.

Sam regards Bobby with that soulful puppy stare of his. Dean can feel the warm fuzzy Oprah vibes in the air before Sam even opens his mouth.

“Bobby—,” the younger Winchester begins earnestly.

“Well the tree ain’t gonna decorate itself,” Bobby cuts him off, quickly and efficiently in that gruff way that he has, “Looks like you let Dean take the lead on the poor bastard.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean says.

“I think he is referring to the tinsel you threw at it,” Cas suggests, and Sam snorts.

Dean feigns indignation while they open the box and pull out an assortment of decorations. There are some traditional baubles, shiny Christmas balls in various colors, eight popsicle stick reindeer, spun-glass icicles, glittery snowflakes, and a few handmade macaroni ornaments; several items made of crystal or china are extremely delicate, and Dean supposes that they are family heirlooms; they rest alongside crocheted figurines that Bobby confirms Karen made herself. Sam handles them all with an expression of pure reverence and joy, placing each individual ornament on a branch like it’s the most precious relic he has ever handled and, man, is he lucky (bear in mind that this overgrown kid has actually handled holy relics in his lifetime). While Sam fairly skips around the tree, Dean puts a star on top. Cas approaches decorating with the same solemn dedication he has applied to everything holiday related, but pauses suddenly over the box. Dean notes this with a furrowed brow; “Whatcha got there, Cas?” 

Cas glances up and blinks before tilting his hands so that Dean can see what he is holding. It’s the only ornament that seems newer than the others. It’s a ceramic trinket that you could buy at a mall kiosk (which, let’s be real, the image of Bobby in a mall is a little unbelievable and, therefore, a Christmas miracle all on its own). It’s cheap and a little tacky, but simple too. It’s an angel. It’s got dark hair and a halo and little cherub wings made of felt. It’s holding a banner that says “Baby’s First Christmas” only someone—a someone with a gruff voice, a paternal demeanor, and an untidy scrawl—has taken a permanent marker and crossed out “Baby’s,” replacing it with “Cas’.” 

There’s a moment where Sam freezes in the act of adding an elf ornament to the tree, Bobby sips his coffee from the seat where he’s taken the role of director, and Dean licks his lips and looks between the ornament in Cas’ hands and his face, waiting. They don’t really put Cas into direct confrontation with anything angelic lest some sort of explosion occur, and, yeah, okay, they’d been doing pretty well up until the holiday season because it’s easy to go without mentioning heaven in September, but, once you hit mid-November, you can’t go five seconds without “angels we have heard on high,” and “hark the herald angels sing,” and fucking angel lights, and angel costumes, and angel everything, and shit, it’s almost impossible to run interference. Dean has been trying to shield Cas as best he can (hence, making snow “fairies”) because, well, he seems okay (or, at least, better) with the constant Christmas tunes and the whole new humanity thing, but do they really want to challenge that? Dean is willing to go without provoking that shit for the rest of his life, thanks. Now Cas is holding an ornament that bears a resemblance to himself, and they’re all waiting for some kind of crisis…it doesn’t come. Instead, Cas gazes at the ornament for a few moments, face inscrutable. 

“Thank you, Bobby,” he finally intones. There is a small but sincere smile on his face; like this was Bobby’s personal invitation to join the family and be one of his adopted boys the same as Sam and Dean are. You can see that Cas gets that in the way his expression is so open, and that Bobby knows it in the slow nod he gives him. 

“Well, put it on the tree, boy,” he directs. Sam looks like he’s tearing up, and Dean isn’t sure whether to hug Bobby, kiss Cas, or punch Sam because he feels like something is exploding in his chest. He compensates by clearing his throat and saying, “There’s a spot near the top, Cas.”

Cas hangs his angel nearest the star between a blue light and a green one that alternatively color its white robes in their resplendent glow. He smiles and it’s real.

The rest of the day is relaxed. Cas makes more cookies, and Sam helps him, while Bobby naps in his chair, and Dean goes out to the grocery store. Dean can swear off holiday shopping all he wants, but when Sam and Cas turn on the puppy eyes, he’s totally screwed. That’s how he ends up driving in the snow to fight crowds (and Bobby was right, people do not know how to drive) to buy all the stuff that makes up Christmas dinner. It’s harrowing. He barely escapes with his life.

Sam goes out to meet Elizabeth for lunch in the early afternoon. Bobby, to Dean’s delight, berates him for hiding her away. Sam looks genuinely embarrassed, and Dean is so smug about the whole thing that Cas feels compelled to cuff him over the head, prompting Bobby’s laughter. The three of them eat sandwiches and watch A Charlie Brown Christmas again because it’s on tv (and Cas loves it). 

In the evening, Sam asks if anyone wants to go with him to church. Dean laughs hysterically until Cas elbows him sharply in the ribs, and he draws up short, looking between his brother and his boyfriend. “Dude, are you serious?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“Just get it out,” Sam offers, somewhat resigned.

“It’s just funny, man, after everything we’ve been through, you goin’ to church, prayin.’” He could say something really indelicate about the extreme irony of Lucifer’s vessel kneeling in a pew. There is also some irony to Michael’s vessel refusing to cross the threshold of a chapel. God is real; they know it; that doesn’t mean that Dean wants anything to do with the dick. It’s not lost on him that he’s got an arm around a fallen angel—doesn’t mean he likes his potential in-laws. After everything, it’s a little hard to have faith. Churches make his skin crawl. 

“Yeah, well,” Sam doesn’t elaborate, which is probably for the best. It wouldn’t do to have a theological argument on Christmas Eve, “you comin’ or not?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Cas?” Sam asks.

Cas considers the offer, and he and Sam share a look. 

“No,” he answers finally, “thank you, Sam.”

Sam nods with a disproportionate amount of understanding. Bobby also refuses his offer. A few moments after Sam heads out, wearing a tie, Cas gets up.

“I think I’ll go for a walk.”

“You okay?” Dean queries, concerned, rising to his feet, “You want company?”

Cas touches Dean’s shoulder gently, forcing him back to his seat, “I’m fine. I just need some air and some solitude.”

Dean doesn’t like it, not one bit, but he nods, and Cas bundles up and goes out into the cold. 

“What’s up with Feathers?” Bobby inquires, passing Dean a beer.

Dean takes it, shaking his head in frustration, “Damned if I know.” He will find out sooner or later, he can wait it out. In the meantime, he and Bobby shoot the shit and catch up on El demonio (“Ricardo did WHAT?!” “With Angela” “You’re shitting me”).

Sam comes home around nine. Cas trails in, cold and quiet a half hour later. He makes them all hot chocolate. Bobby is highly skeptical about the lack of eggnog, but, when he tastes the concoction, he has to admit that it’s delicious. Dean gets as smug about Cas’ creation, as if he’d made it himself. Cas accepts Bobby’s praise shyly, and Sam shoots Dean a glare telling him he’s an idiot and he’s not sure how Cas tolerates him—it’s the newest bitch face yet. Dean smirks: he likes it. They hang out in the kitchen, reminiscing and joking. 

When Bobby yawns widely and says that it’s time for him to hit the hay, Dean tells him that he can take his room. Bobby quirks an eyebrow, “You sleepin’ on the couch, boy?” he queries and Dean knows that he’s being goaded.

In response, he clears his throat (and no, no matter what Sam says, he does not blush) and puts his arm around Cas’ shoulders, “Hell no,” he says with bravado, “I’m sleeping with Cas.” The former-angel in question does actually blush, and Dean grins triumphantly. Sam shoots him bitch face #22 dude, grow the fuck up, but there’s no real heat in it, and Bobby looks genuinely pleased, “Glad you finally got your head outta your ass, idjit,” he snarks at Dean, before sincerely telling Cas, “Good luck,” and wishing Sam a good night. 

“Don’t you kids stay up too late.”

“’Night, gramps,” Dean quips, but the effect is ruined when he yawns broadly. 

“Perhaps Bobby is not the only one in need of his ‘beauty sleep,’” Cas suggests with the barest upward tilt to his mouth.

“Hey,” Dean argues, “we both know I don’t need beauty sleep.”

Cas snorts, “You are beautiful always.” Dean is not sure if Cas is kidding or not because jesus, they’ve been over this: you can’t just say shit like that to someone.

Sam seems to agree, “Get a room.”

“Gladly,” Cas says and tugs a surprised Dean to his feet. Sam looks amused, and Dean leers, allowing himself to be lead away, “Night.” 

As soon as the door closes behind them, Cas kisses Dean softly. Dean’s hands trail down Cas’ sides, his thumbs move under Cas’ shirt, tracing the warm skin beneath. Cas hums into Dean’s mouth.

“You okay?” Dean questions, later when they’re lying in bed together, Cas’ face pressed into the curve of Dean’s neck. 

“Of course,” Cas replies. 

Dean squeezes Cas’ shoulder, “You know; you could tell me if you weren’t, right?”

Cas presses a kiss against Dean’s jaw, “I know.”

Dean wakes up in the middle of the night. He’s cold, that’s his first thought, he reaches out for Cas and is met with cool empty sheets instead. He opens his eyes. The covers are thrown back and there is an unoccupied space where Cas should be. Dean gets up and tosses on his clothes. He tiptoes down the hallway past Bobby and Sam’s respective snores and pads softly down the stairs. 

It’s dark in the sitting room. The only illumination comes from the lights on the tree. They cast a twinkling glow over the walls and the sofa and the still figure whose flannel covered legs are protruding from beneath the low hanging pine boughs.  
“What’re you doin’, Cas?” Dean asks. It’s late, and he whispers loudly enough to carry but still low. He doesn’t want to wake anyone.  
He walks closer and gently taps Cas’ foot with his own. Cas squirms slightly. His feet are ticklish.  
“Merry Christmas, Dean,” Cas’ voice is slightly muffled by the tree branches.  
“You know,” Dean begins, “Santa won’t bring you any presents if you’re awake. Them’s the rules.” He’s teasing, and he can imagine Sammy—who, like the good boy he is, is already asleep, probably with sugar plums dancing in his head or whatever—giving Dean his patented bitch face #29 Dude, be sensitive, potential existential crises are happening. He’d also probably shoot Dean an impressive original “you uncultured douche, I do not have fucking sugarplums dancing in my head” glare if he had been privy to Dean’s thoughts. Dean clears his throat and focuses on Cas, something that he’s particularly drawn towards doing anyway.  
“Santa is not real, Dean,” corrects Cas, “And even if he did exist, I believe that I would fall outside his particular purview. St. Nicholas, however—”  
“All right, all right” Dean interrupts. It’s too late (or too early) for a lesson on religious iconography or mythography or the dietary habits of St. Nicholas or whatever the fuck else. Dean lowers himself to the floor, his knees cracking loudly in the process. “I’m gettin’ too old for this.”  
He shifts until he’s lying next to Cas under the tree, their elbows brushing. It smells like pine and Christmas. The lights alternately illuminate Cas’ face in green and pink and blue and throw it into shadow. He smiles softly at Dean and the hunter reaches over to take one of Cas’ hands from where it lies neatly folded on his chest. Cas lets him.  
Dean likes this, the touching, the connection, the way they fit. It’s new and it’s right and it feels like forever.  
“You’re barely in your mid-thirties,” Cas chides gently once Dean is settled. They both know that Dean is really light years older than that. That he’s lived a lifetime in hell and his time on earth has not been easy…and Cas, well, for all that he looks like he’s around thirty-six or so, he’s older than time itself, so Dean should maybe not complain about decrepitude.  
Cas is weird about the whole mortality thing sometimes…Dean’s not his own. Dean had come home from work late one night a few months back, and Cas had looked damn near panicked when he’d finally shown up. He’d hugged Dean tightly enough to bruise and refused to let him out of his sight for the rest of the night. When Dean had tried to talk about it—because, hey, if something upsets Cas it’s important, and Sammy keeps saying that Dean is growing or whatever—Cas had looked stricken, “What if something had happened to you? I can’t heal you any more, Dean, I can’t bring you back.” He was wide-eyed, shaking, and legitimately terrified. Dean had promised that he would be as careful as he could and try to live a long life. Since then, he’d made every effort to be on time, and let Cas know if and why he wasn’t. Mortality is something that they rarely discuss, but somehow, it seems okay to joke about in the dark, surrounded by pine needles.  
“Yeah, well, you would know, being older than dirt,” he strokes the back of Cas’ hand with his thumb. Cas chuckles softly.  
They lie together in silence. It really is nice here with Cas, Dean thinks, anywhere would be nice with Cas.  
“So, why’re you down here? Ya know we’ve got a nice warm bed upstairs.”  
“The lights are soothing,” Cas replies, “I needed some perspective.”  
Dean tenses, “Everything, okay?” It clearly isn’t.  
Cas squeezes Dean’s hand in reassurance and shifts closer, still staring at the lights. Dean watches Cas, idly toying with his fingers, patient; they’ve got time, he can wait it out.  
After a few moments, Cas says, “Sam did not think that you would want to have a Christmas.”  
Which is one hundred percent now what Dean was expecting, “What?”  
Cas gazes up through the branches, and it’s hard to read his expression in the distorted light.  
“After Thanksgiving, the subject of Christmas came up…he did not think that you would want to celebrate the holiday.”  
Dean frowns, “Why?”  
“It’s associated with ‘family,’ and Sam indicated that it would be filled with painful memories of loss that you would not wish to revisit.”  
So Sam was trying to forestall and protect Dean, the same way that Dean had spent the past few months skirting around the Jessica issue. Great.  
“Cas, with our track record, every day is the anniversary of some damn tragedy.”  
“I did not expect that you would want to celebrate it.”  
“Well, I did.”  
“Clearly.”  
There’s a pause. “Dude, level with me here, what’s really going on?”  
Slowly, Cas replies, “I bore witness to the first Christmas, Dean.”  
Dean turns on his side, ignoring the needles sticking him in the head, so that he can see Cas better, “You’re like the most epic cradle robber, dude,” he smirks, trying to lighten the mood.  
“Your sensitivity is, as ever, a comfort,” Cas retorts drily.  
“Sorry.”  
“The first Christmas the entire host rejoiced with one voice….” He pauses “It is different celebrating in this way.”  
Dean swallows, hard, “Like worse?”  
Cas frowns, shaking his head in negation, “Different.”  
Dean is not really sure what’s going on, but he’s starting to feel bile rising in the back of his throat because this is totally what he had been afraid of since day fucking one: that, in time, Cas would finally just get sick of the whole damn—  
“Time, as you understand it, had no meaning before,” Cas interrupts, and Dean focuses more firmly on what he’s saying instead of his own escalating panic, “everything happened at once and not at all…but now—I—my perspective has changed dramatically.”  
He grips Dean’s fingers tightly, anchoring himself and Dean grasps back just as fiercely, “I understood that humans marked the passage of time and commemorated events because it was important to them…but now I…I understand; from this perspective time is ephemeral and transient…”  
He frowns up at the lights and it silent for a moment more. Dean is holding his breathe without really meaning to when Cas turns, meeting Dean’s eyes with that fierce intensity that is purely his own.  
“It is precious, Dean,” he says solemnly. His scrutiny is electrifying and overwhelming, and Dean knows that Cas is telling him that he is precious, that this life they’re sharing is precious, and that on some level he is grateful that they share this perspective on the universe. Dean may never see the universe the way that Cas once did—all stars and galaxies created and destroyed simultaneously, everywhere and nowhere at once—but Cas can see it the way that Dean does; families and crap tv and an ugly Christmas trees and prank wars and pie; sex and rock music and flannel shirts and snow ball fights and cars and books and movie nights. It’s amazing to realize that the universe looks more beautiful to Cas now, and not less, because of his new position within it.  
Dean can’t quite process the way that he feels; the way that Cas’ stare makes his heart leap like it’s trying to jump out of his chest, so he leans forward and captures Cas mouth with his own. He kisses him fiercely: you are precious to me, he tries to convey with lips and teeth and tongue.  
When he pulls back, Cas traces the contours of Dean’s face, looking at him with wonder, “It’s my first Christmas,” he whispers, “I came down here because I wanted to observe this moment.”  
Hi gaze is full and laced with meaning. How much has changed, how much is changing, and still here they are: together.  
“Then, we’ll do it together,” he promises and kisses Cas again, possessively.  
“Merry Christmas, Dean.”  
He wants to take Cas back to bed right this moment, but that’s not what Cas needs. So, instead Dean traces a slow circle on Cas’ ribs, and they lie together in the warm glow for a few minutes more.  
“Merry Christmas, Cas.”  
Fingers still tangled together, they watch the flickering lights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know what this is anymore. There is one more chapter to go. I would love to hear what you think. Comments and reviews are wicked appreciated. THANK YOU so much for taking the time to read this story.


	7. I Have No Gift to Bring (Christmas Day)

Christmas Day dawns bright and cold, and the rising sun reflects sharply off the freshly fallen snow, creating a radiant crystalline landscape. Dean Winchester is oblivious to all of that presently. The morning finds him in Cas’ bed. Over the past few months, Dean’s learned that when Cas sleeps—if he sleeps—he either curls up into a tight ball, nested in a circle of blankets and pillows, or sprawls out completely boneless like a puppet with cut strings. This morning it’s the latter. Dean is accustomed to sleeping in random positions and places—it comes with growing up on the road, sleeping in the Impala, sofas, and scattered motels across the country. Since he and Cas started sharing a bed, he moves to accommodate Cas. Which is why, while one of Cas’ legs hangs off the edge of the bed and one of his arms is flung out wide over the pillows, Dean is molded to Cas’ side, his legs entangled with Cas’, one hand pressed to his own chest, the other splayed across Cas’ stomach. The blankets are tangled at the foot of the bed. Cas’ shirt is rucked up, exposing his hip bones and a slice of his stomach. Dean’s hand is half beneath, tight to Cas’ side so that his fingertips rest on the edges of the scars that strip Cas’ back, remnants of his fall. Even asleep, Cas’ holds fast to Dean’s shoulder. 

Dean’s head is pillowed on Cas’ chest, rising and falling with his inhales and exhales. He can hear the rhythmic thump of Cas’ heart beneath his ear. It’s a soothing sound; the cadence had lulled him to sleep the night before. 

When they sleep together, they have fewer nightmares. When they share a bed, they’re less afraid of the dark. When they rest wrapped close, Cas actually sleeps, and Dean clings to him the way a shipwrecked sailor would clutch at a life preserver in a storm tossed sea. Dean doesn’t tell Cas, but this might be his favorite part of Cas’ humanity: because he can feel the thrum of Cas’ pulse, the gentle huff of his breath, the warmth of his skin, and the shift of his muscles as he moves in his slumber. Cas snores softly. He fits close to Dean. His face relaxes sometimes into this look of peace; other times, you can tell that he’s dreaming. His feet twitch a lot. There is something so achingly human about Cas when he sleeps, and Dean feels reassured by it: the fear of losing him goes away for those few hours when they’re enveloped with one another, breathing in time. 

Last night there had been no nightmares. When Cas had finally said he was ready to go to sleep, Dean had tugged him to his feet and led the way back to their room. Cas had kissed Dean softly once they had lain down, his eyes heavy lidded with exhaustion; Dean had smiled through a yawn, and they had both drifted off. 

Hours later, it’s not the sun that wakes Dean, nor is it the chill air (and the fact that all the blankets—Cas has a ton of them, and Dean has no idea where the hell they came from, seriously, Cas is like a fucking magpie for this shit—are snarled around their feet). There isn’t a resounding noise or an alarm. It’s quiet and still. Dean’s maybe drooled a bit on Cas’ shirt. 

It’s Dean’s nose that draws him closer to consciousness. Bacon. Coffee. Someone is making breakfast. It smells fucking awesome. He inhales deeply and snuffles a bit into Cas’ chest, but he doesn’t move to get up. He’s too comfortable, Cas is too warm, and Dean squeezes closer, calloused fingertips running along the exposed skin on Cas’ ribs. 

Cas stomach growls like a monster. Dean can’t help it: he laughs, low and rough. He can almost hear Cas smile as he squeezes Dean’s shoulder and runs his other hand lightly through his hair, sighing.

Dean props his chin on Cas’ sternum and looks up, grinning.

“Little hungry, tiger?” he jokes. 

Cas has some serious bedhead, and he’s still blinking a bit muzzily, but his eyes are bright and sharp and he smirks before yawning widely.

Dean smiles again and leans up to kiss him softly on the lips, “Mornin’, sunshine.”

“Merry Christmas,” Cas returns, voice coarse with sleep. 

“Shit,” Dean grins, “it fucking is. Merry Christmas.”

He presses his mouth to Cas’ again, swiftly before basically launching himself off of the bed. Cas groans in protest. Dean throws one of the pillows that somehow made its way onto the floor at Cas’ head. Cas catches it with a glare before it can make contact. He’s got good reflexes and Dean chuckles. 

“Get up, dude,” he practically sings, “We gotta go see what Santa left us.”

Cas frowns dubiously, looking concerned for his sanity, “Dean, Santa is not—”

Dean rolls his eyes dramatically, “Jesus, Cas, don’t be a killjoy,” he tugs Cas’ hand, “get up.”

Cas makes a noise that sounds vaguely like “grrrrmph.” 

“I’m giving you five minutes before I send Sammy up here to drag your ass outa bed,” he warns.

Cas looks scandalized and betrayed, and Dean chuckles and he goes to brush his teeth before thundering down the stairs. 

He swings into the kitchen where Bobby is very calmly drinking his coffee and Sam is eating a waffle. 

“Merry Christmas,” he greets them both, beaming like a fucking lunatic. Sam grins and Bobby has that suppressed smirk that says he’s amused but not willing to admit it.

“’bout time you woke up, princess,” he offers as he sips his brew.

“Yeah, well, late night.”

Sam regards Dean. “You went to bed before me, loser…” then realization sinks in, “Dude, we don’t want to know.”

Dean smirks, digging into his bacon with gusto. 

“Where is Feathers anyway?” Bobby asks with raised brows.

“Here,” Cas responds from the doorway. He’s apparently decided to accept Bobby’s nickname with grace, either that, or he’s still too half asleep to object to it, Dean’s not sure which it is. Cas is the opposite of a morning person and he makes a beeline for the coffee pot.

“Merry Christmas, Castiel,” Sam greets, offering him a plate of waffles. Cas takes one and douses it in syrup, methodically filling each individual square one at a time. 

Dean continues munching on his bacon and he’s bouncing a little bit in his chair. He’s excited and nervous. It’s kind of ridiculous. It’s no secret that Dean has spent the majority of the month of December experiencing varying degrees of existential crises about the impending holiday. Now that it’s finally, actually here there’s a sense of release because there are only twenty-four hours left, and they’ve come this far they might as well enjoy them. Also, breakfast rocks.

“Dude, what are you, five?” Sam snaps, when Dean proceeds to race through his food and nudge his brother repeatedly to do the same (including, kicking him sharply under the table), but his judgmental tone is mediated by the lopsided grin he’s got on his face.

“Presents, Sammy,” Dean says, and seriously, he has been worried about this shit for months. Because real holiday means real presents and not skin mags and shaving cream, and, seriously, what do you get your baby brother for civilian life? For that matter, what the ever-loving fuck can you possibly give your best friend turned love of your life who has literally been to hell for you and repeatedly died for you, and who also happens to be a fallen-angel who gave up immortality for you? Like, Jesus. If that wasn’t hard enough, oh, yeah, by the way try shopping for your mentor and basically adopted father…that shit is hard as fuck. On some level, Dean knows that Sam, Cas, and Bobby could give less of a fuck about what the hell he got for them. Dean, for his part would be happy to get an air-freshener for the Impala, it doesn’t matter as long as everyone is here, and he knows that they probably feel the same…it’s just, he wants it to be special—and yeah, he knows that he sounds like a fucking girl—but really he wants to make them happy, and if he’s really honest, he wants to prove that he can not fuck one thing up, so that they realize maybe it’s worth sticking around, so he can fool them into thinking that he’s worth all the shit they’ve been through for him…so that they stay. 

Dean skirts away from the introspection…too heavy for Christmas…All the stress and pressure and insanity aside, there is also something incredibly exciting about the small pile of presents waiting under the tree. Dean is absurdly anxious and strangely proud of his choices. At the same time, there is an impulse of his barely restrained inner four-year old, because he has some almost ingrained memory of excitement, of carols, and fire trucks, and ripping wrapping paper to shreds, and he wants that now with his family. He wants it for all of them, and so help him, he’s gonna make sure they all have it, even if that means waiting for Cas to eat his entire waffle bite by careful bite.

“Caassss, hurry up,” Dean whines. He didn’t say he was gonna wait patiently. He has limits.

“Slow down, ya idjit,” Bobby censures.

Sam clears his plate, and puts on Christmas music (what else?). The gods of Christmas radio smile upon Dean because the first thing to come on is Springsteen’s cover of “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town.” He ruffles Cas’ hair, uses the back of Sam’s head as an impromptu drum set (“I hope you got nothing but coal, dick”), and air guitars his way into the living room.

Bobby comes in next, still with his coffee cup, “I can tell I’m gonna need it,” he stares pointedly at Dean’s exuberant face. Cas follows with this air of wide eyed innocence, looking at the tree and the lights and the small stack of presents as if seeing them for the first time. It’s kind of amazing to witness the juxtaposition of his centuries old wisdom with this first experience. Sam joins them last, and Dean is suspicious that the delay is purely to screw with him, and he is surprisingly okay with it. 

“This is for you, ya freak,” Sam chucks a small package at Dean’s head, and he catches it with glee.

“Well, open it, boy,” Bobby directs.

So Dean does, with delight, “Aw, man, really?” He’s beaming, his cheeks hurt: it’s weird. Sam gave him the complete Doctor Sexy DVD collection. 

“Yeah, well, you need to feed your sick habit somehow,” Sam snarks, “Merry Christmas.”

Cas is next. Sam hands him his gift, and Cas accepts it solemnly. He starts to peal the red and green wrapping paper along the seam. 

“You’re supposed to rip it, Cas,” Dean tells him, “Jesus, you’re not gonna keep the wrapping paper.”

Cas blinks, “I’m not?”

“Oh my god—”

Sam rolls his eyes at his brother, “You can keep the wrapping paper if you want, Cas. Don’t let Dean bully you.”

Dean glares at him. Cas continues to painstakingly unwrap his gift and open the box. 

It’s a lime green yoga mat. 

“For when you meditate, you know?” Sam seems strangely shy and excited. You can tell how badly he wants Cas to like it. The fallen-angel smiles brightly.

“That is very thoughtful, Sam,” he returns, “I will make good use of this, thank you.”

“There’s a certificate in there for a couples’ yoga class, too,” he says innocently, “I thought maybe you and Dean could go after the holiday.”

Dean scowls at Sam with all the force he can muster, and Sam’s smile is pure evil. Bobby tries to turn his laugh into a cough and fails. Cas thanks Sam genuinely again, full of wonder at his first ever Christmas present, and Dean can tell right now that he’s gonna have to man up and go with it, and Sam is so getting payback for this shit.

“Sam, you have to open our gifts together,” Cas directs after he’s finished expending raptures about the joys of meditation and eco-friendly mat materials and something about pigeons. Because he does. Dean and Cas planned this out weeks ago. Talked about, put thought and agonizing effort into making this decision. When Dean had brought his idea to Cas, with trepidation and nerves, Cas had given him this soft smile that let Dean know how proud he was, had agreed to help, and had been sworn to absolute secrecy (“Cause you and Sammy can’t seem to shut up” “I would not betray your confidence, Dean”).

Cas is the picture of barely restrained excitement. Dean is clearly edgy, jolting a little on the sofa. Cas picks up their packages from where they’ve been neatly laid under the tree. 

“Open mine first,” he instructs, handing Sam his gift and looking up at him from the floor with rapt attention, “Merry Christmas.”

Sam opens it quickly, “Wow, thanks, Cas,” he says. It’s a weighty tome on historical mythography by some really obscure author that Cas swears is legit (he only made three few sharp, cruel critiques of human fallibility when he looked it over, which is impressive) and he was super proud of himself for finding it. 

“You’re welcome,” Cas smiles brightly, “you will find it useful, I’m sure,” he offers enigmatically. Cas never mastered the art of winking, so he blinks super slowly instead. Sam’s brow furrows.

“My turn,” Dean says, feeling like the butterflies in his stomach have turned into pterodactyls. He passes Sam the box that Cas has covered liberally in snowman wrapping paper and way too much tape (Dean could have corrected him, since Cas insisted on doing the wrap job himself, but he felt a perverse joy in the idea of Sam having to work to open his gifts, also, Cas was having way too much fun, and Dean didn’t have the heart to correct him). 

Sam takes a while to get through the layers of tape and paper, before reaching the box. Bobby is watching carefully, Cas looks like he’s praying, and Dean keeps tapping his fingers on his knees, waiting for Sam to open it. 

When his little brother finally reaches what’s inside, his jaw drops and then his hands clench.

“Well, whatcha got, boy?” Bobby asks.

“Dean,” Sam starts, his voice full of emotion, “Are you serious?”

He nods, “It’s what you want, man.”

“Dean—I, I just—but what about—?” And Dean knows that he’s going to start listing off reasons why he can’t do this or shouldn’t do this and why he can’t be happy. Sammy learned from the best, and Dean can see all the excuses a mile away.

“Don’t worry about that,” he interrupts, “we got it covered.”

Cas lays a reassuring hand on Sam’s knee, and Sam looks at him and then at Dean. There are actual tears in his eyes. Dean clears his throat.

“Are you really sure about this?” Sam asks, voice tremulous.

“A hundred percent,” Dean says, which might be an exaggeration, but his brother needs to hear it. Sam gets up and crosses the room in two giant strides, and hugs Dean, tight. He’s still holding Dean’s gift: a university application. Dean holds him back just as fiercely because he can do this for Sam, he can let him go a little bit. He can give him room to spread his sasquatch wings and fly free or whatever, because Sam deserves a chance to go to school and to live the life he wants. He deserves better than hiding away as a bartender because he has some perverse desire to punish himself for Jessica and the Apocalypse and everything bad that has ever happened in the history of the world. Sammy deserves his shot at apple pie, too. And Dean wants him to have that. Dean can let him have that, can give him his blessing, even if it means stepping back and giving Sam the chance to have his own life. 

“You’re gonna be great, Sammy,” Dean mutters into his shoulder, and he means it, while Sam claps him tightly on the back.

“You know, there are a lot of really great schools around here,” Sam says when he finally pulls back, wiping his eyes surreptitiously. Dean would call him a big baby, except for how his own eyes are a little damp.

“Yeah, I know,” he quips, “I’ve seen your internet history.”

Sam chuckles wetly, “Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“Ain’t you two precious,” Bobby says, and it’s really anyone’s guess whether he’s making fun of them or not, but he looks pretty damn proud. His comment brings the boys back to themselves, enough to realize that the older man and Cas are watching them. Cas looks so fucking proud and sappy. Dean clears his throat, and Sam offers to get some more coffee for everyone (which he knows is an excuse to take five minutes to compose himself); Cas goes to help him, and Dean hears the two of them talking about the Anthropology and Theology classes for which Cas’ gift could be useful, spouting off all sorts of academic jargon.

“It’s a big deal, lettin’ Sam go off like that,” Bobby acknowledges.

Dean nods, “He deserves it.”

Bobby inclines his head, “I’m proud of you, boy.”

“Aw, don’t get all Hallmark on me,” Dean retorts, but they both know how much that compliment means to him. 

Thankfully, Sam and Cas return just at that moment. They hand out cups before respectively dropping into the arm chair and sinking back to the floor. 

“So who’s next?” Dean says rubbing his hands together in anticipation. 

“Bobby,” Sam says.

“Oh Jesus.” 

Bobby gets Season 2 of El demonio on DVD from Dean. Sam gives him some fine whiskey. Cas goes last, offering Bobby a small box liberally covered in tape. 

“Did you actually want me to open the damn thing?” he grumbles, struggling for purchase for a few moments before pulling out a knife and cutting through the bright green foil.

He goes silent for a full minute before he laughs. Hysterically. 

Dean and Sam share a confused glance; while Cas sits with a poker face. 

“What the hell did you get him?” 

Bobby is still chortling, but he hands his gift to Dean. It’s a personalized coffee mug. The kind you can get at the mall or order from some custom internet store. On one side is a picture: it’s of Sam and Dean from a few months ago. They had had an ongoing prank war over the course of a weekend. Cas had found the entire thing moderately terrifying. The ordeal had resulted in Sam with pink and green streaks in his hair and Dean with a liberal coating of clown makeup. They had fallen asleep on the sofa after calling a reluctant truce and going over twenty-four hours without sleep. Cas must have taken the photo; Dean had no idea that it even existed until now. They look like five year olds who had conked out after a sugar high at a birthday party. Bobby makes a spinning motion with his hand, so Dean turns the cup over: Daddy’s Little Princesses is written in script on the opposite side.

He rolls his eyes, “For god’s sake—”

He passes it to Sam, who lets out a sharp bark of laughter.

“I was given to understand that this was a customary gift for paternal figures,” Cas says with a completely straight face.

Bobby clearly loves it (“I’m using this every fucking day” he affirms while wiping his eyes), and Sam and Dean concede that Cas has the ultimate victory in their holiday picture war. 

“Cas, you son of a bitch,” Dean retorts with pride. Cas is still all innocence.

When Bobby has composed himself (“I haven’t laughed like that in years.” Cas is absurdly pleased), he hands out three identical packages.

“Well, go on,” he commands brusquely.

They’re leather journals. Simple, unadorned, a lot like John’s. Dean runs his hand over the cover and flips it open, the paper is sharp and crisp. The first page is the only one with writing, in Bobby’s untidy scrawl, “don’t you forget where you come from, but don’t let it stop you from going somewhere different either.”

Dean swallows hard; he doesn’t know what to say. Cas regards his as if it is the new edition of the holy scripture. Sam seems like he might start crying again. 

“Bobby, I—”

“Thank you this is—”

“I can’t begin to—”

Their thanks all become jumbled, but Bobby waves them off, gruff and sure, “Take care of them.” And yourselves, is unspoken. 

It’s just Dean and Cas left. They’d agreed to do one present on Christmas morning and one later when they were alone, mostly because there is only so much sentimentality that Dean feels comfortable expressing in front of Bobby and Sam, and he would really like to be able to deal with Cas’ rejection and his own embarrassment in private, thanks. Also, he would really like to be able to look Bobby and Sam in the eye again sometime within the next decade so…

Dean hands Cas an envelop and bites his lip with nerves, watching Cas root under the tree for a very small, meticulously wrapped package covered in a pattern of doves on a blue background. Cas looks about as nervous as Dean feels. 

“You first,” he tells Dean in a tone that brooks no argument. He passes Dean his present and sits back down. The focus that Cas is giving to him is actually nerve wracking. He glances over to Bobby and then to Sam, who’s got a smug, gleeful grin, and clearly knows what Cas got him. It could seriously be a sock and Dean wouldn’t care.

“Dean, open it,” Cas tells him.

So Dean does and “Holy shit, Cas.”

It’s a first edition Vonnegut. Slaughterhouse Five. Dean’s favorite. He’s lost track of how many times that he read this book as a teenager: lonely and scared and disaffected and pretending to be grown up and knowing what the fuck he was doing even when he didn’t. Reading it on the sly because Dean wasn’t the smart one, wasn’t the book kind; who had time for that shit when you knew what was really out there? John certainly didn’t, so neither did Dean. Except, sometimes, when he needed it, and he discovered that some authors knew exactly what the fuck it was like, living this sort of life, and somehow it made Dean feel less alone and freaked out. It’s not just that this book meant so much to him growing up; that he had read reread his copy until the binding fell apart, and Dean had taped up as best he could, until it got ruined in a freak flood in some motel in Cincinnati. It’s that Cas knew all of this without Dean ever having said anything beyond a passing mention once years ago. It’s that Cas got him this because he knew it was important and…it’s signed. It must’ve cost a fucking fortune, and how the hell did Cas even—?

Dean is so overwhelmed; he’s not sure what to do. This is literally priceless in every way possible, and he finally looks up at Cas with his eyes over bright, “Where the hell did you get this.”

Cas looks unsure of Dean’s reaction. He shrugs, and the gesture is so totally Cas: learned over months and awkward but graceful at the same time, “I knew where to find it.”

Because once upon a time Cas knew where to find anything and everything, and he saved the knowledge of this one thing because it was important to Dean and he wanted to give him something that he would love and…fuck.

Cas nervously plays with his fingers, “Do you like it?”

“I, Cas, it’s—” the words are stuck somewhere in his throat.

“My emotionally stunted brother is trying to say thank you,” Sam corrects.

Dean glares at Sam before looking back to Cas, “it’s awesome. Thanks, Cas.”

He runs his hand gently over the cover, and then clears his throat. “Your turn.”

Cas opens the envelope Dean gives him with meticulous attention. 

Dean feels like he might throw up, “It, uh, cause I know you like cooking and whatever…” he rubs the back of his neck nervously, while Cas considers the paper in his hands, “So I found this place in Vermont, they’ve got like a weekend couples thing, with cooking lessons or whatever, and I thought we could like—” he makes and expansive hand gesture, he looks to Bobby for support (he’s smiling a little, so there’s that), “you know—do that. It’s not like a first edition or what—” but the rest of his rambling rant is cut off when Cas leans forward suddenly and captures Dean’s mouth with his own. He kisses him fierce, quick, and thorough, and Dean kisses him back, his hand on the nape of Cas’ neck holding on when he would pull away. 

Sam clears his throat pointedly, and they break apart. 

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says, his eyes full of mirth, “I love it.”

“Merry Christmas,” Dean replies, voice rough, smile a bit dazed because he’s astonished that he didn’t fuck this up completely. He kisses Cas again quickly, before Sam asks him to help clean up. 

He ruffles Cas’ hair and sticks a discarded bow on Sam’s head, as he collects the cast-off paper. Bobby turns on the parade for Cas, who is simultaneously unnerved and fascinated. They’re engaging is some really weird conversation about pop culture before Bobby again congratulates Cas on his gift. 

The day is super relaxed after that. They hang out in the living room watching TV and lounging in their pajamas. Dean needles Sam about Elizabeth and makes pointed comments about breaking out the Doctor Sexy box set (“Dean, you can deal with Christmas movies for one more day.” When Dean sulks, Cas nudges him sharply with his knee and gives him a look that plainly says that Sam is right, and Dean is no match for that face so he sighs and drapes his arm around Cas’ shoulder, who makes a contented noise deep in his throat that promises better entertainment than Doctor Sexy later.).

Bobby puts on a football game, while Cas goes into the kitchen to start dinner. Well, finishing dinner might be the better phrase, since it’s been a work in progress for days. Dean contributes by mashing the potatoes. He’s extremely good at it, although he makes an exceptionally large mess in the process. Cas laughs at his fervency, and helps to remove the errant potatoes peels from Dean’s person, kissing him all the while, until Sam comes in to help with the turkey. There’s a steady stream of Christmas music, and Cas rejoins them in the sitting room once everything is in the oven. Sam sets the table, and all they’ve left to do is chill while the awesome smells waft around the house. White Christmas is on, and Cas makes a puzzled face whenever people randomly burst into song, but he seems willing enough to go with it. Sam makes popcorn and he and Dean periodically chuck it at one another from across the room until Bobby tells them to knock it off. Dean responds by throwing some at him, and blaming it on Sam, while Bobby and laughs and Cas just rolls his eyes. Dean idly runs his hand through Cas’ hair, and finds himself become caught up in the plot despite himself. When he says “man, the short dude and the sister”—which is what Dean calls Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney’s characters—“need to fucking communicate, Jesus,” there is dead silence in the room while everyone turns to stare at him.

He shifts uncomfortably, “What?”

Sam blinks disbelievingly, and then laughs, he laughs so hard that he is actually gasping for air. 

“Shut up, ass-hat,” Dean grumbles defensively throwing another handful at his cackling brother. 

Clouds roll in in the afternoon and it starts to snow. Dean goes out to shovel. The air is sharp in his lungs, and he waves to his neighbors and wishes them a Merry Christmas from across the road. It’s so fucking domestic; it’s kind of awesome in a surreal sort of way.

The amount of food set out for the four of them is incredible. The table is weighted down with turkey and mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes in some sugary sauce, broccoli and green beans because there is a general conspiracy to force Dean to eat green vegetables (ever since Sam once joked about scurvy and malnutrition in front of Cas, and Cas, as he does, had taken it way too seriously). There are biscuits and carrots and cranberry sauce and it’s epic. Everything looks and smells amazing, and when Sam tells Cas that he outdid himself with this, Bobby and Dean agree. 

The conversation is light and easy at the table. They talk about what Bobby has been up to and where Sam is considering applying and the classes he wants to take and how he thinks that he’d really like to get an advanced degree. Dean can totally see Sam as a nerdy professor, gushing about random esoteric shit (he’s halfway there already), and Cas seems totally on board with it. For his part, Cas tells them stories from his forays into literature and into town; there is always this element of novelty, curiosity, and even discovery about these anecdotes that makes simple and mundane tasks seem new and extraordinary. It’s a marker for how far Cas has come that he feels comfortable doing things by himself, for himself, and is ready and willing to share his tales. He lights up and Dean is not, and likely never will be sure, if it seems that way to other people, or if it’s just the way that he sees Cas, like he’s bright, radiant, bathed in the grace that is there still even if it’s not. Something in the region of his heart twists. They talk about their gifts and their tree (which Cas wants to keep up indefinitely “it is beautiful and it smells nice. I like the lights,” “Yeah, we know”), and whether Bobby’s planning to stay for New Year’s (“Well I ain’t driving all the way to North Dakota and back inside this week. I’m too old for that shit” “Guess we’ll be roommates a bit longer, Cas” Dean says with a lascivious wink; Sam rolls his eyes and chucks a biscuit at his head; Dean pulls a face. Cas shakes his head exasperatedly and shares a commiserating look with Bobby when he calls the boys “idjits.”). 

They have seconds and thirds of everything. Cas brings in the pies (pecan, pumpkin, and apple), that he made from scratch. They are awesome. Dean has a slice of each, and the pecan is so good that his eyes roll up in his head and he makes a noise that is more suited to the bedroom. Cas’ eyes go dark, but no one makes fun of what Sam calls Dean’s “foodgasm” because the pie is universally acknowledged as fucking awesome.

When they literally can’t eat anything else. They migrate into the living room. Bobby lands heavily in his arm chair with a sigh. Cas gracefully folds himself against Dean’s side when he flops down on the sofa. Sam brings in tea for Cas and eggnog for everyone else. Dean is full and content and warm with Cas resting by his side and Sam slumped across from him. 

“So who gets to choose the movie?” he asks.

“Bobby should choose,” Cas asserts.

It’s only fair. Bobby picks It’s a Wonderful Life, “It’s a classic.”

Cas rests his head on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean strokes his hair. Bobby gives them an approving smile and Sam an indulgent one every so often. Dean’s exceptionally relaxed, amazed that they sailed through the holiday without any major bloodshed. He clearly thought too soon, zoning out and dwelling on the smell of Cas’ hair and the feel of his hand on his knee. It’s only when he suddenly pays attention the film that he basically short-circuits. He watches George Bailey’s life unfold: his delayed dreams, his sacrifices for his brother, his constant fuck-ups, the way that he hurts the people who love him: Mary, his kids. Dean tries to stay relaxed, but his muscles tense, and he’s sure Cas can feel it because he asks quietly if Dean is okay to which Dean responds with a curt, “sure, yeah.” He makes it to the part when Clarence jumps in the river to keep George from giving into his despair and committing suicide, and suddenly Dean can take it anymore. He gets up, abruptly, leaving Cas blinking in concern, and Sam giving him a quizzical head tilt, Bobby regards him steadily. 

“I’m fine, I just need…” he mutters, “be back.” And he throws on his coat and heads outside. He takes huge gulps of the frigid air, like a drowning man. He feels a bit sick, and he kicks the railing on the porch, which does nothing but hurt his foot and makes him wish that he had a gun. He also really, truly, for the first time in years, wishes that there were a shifter on hand and that it would take his image. He would like nothing better than to shoot himself in effigy, straight through the head. Fuck.

It’s still snowing and it’s quiet. The lights in the neighboring houses glow, bright smears of gold against the darkness: families, safety, home. Dean paces on the porch, restless, frustrated, hating himself for ever thinking that he was doing right, that Cas was better off, that Dean was worth shit. This whole thing was a fucking stupid idea. Jesus Christ, who was he trying to kid? Christmas? Family? A normal fucking life? That Cas could love him? Jesus he is such a goddamn idiot. He kicks the rail again harder and then drops down onto the steps, hands clasped before him, teeth gritted tight to keep the bile down. Dean sits there in the icy night, feeling anything but peaceful, roiling in his own self-loathing for a good ten minutes. It’s probably a sign of maturity that he didn’t jump in the Impala and drive to a local bar and get smashed (which Sam will point out later). He probably would have continued to sit there all night before fishing a weapon out of the caches that he still keeps in the trunk and the garage and doing some target practice. Instead, he gets interrupted after about ten minutes.

Cas is silent in his approach, so quiet that Dean’s first intimation of his presence is the brush of air as Cas slides into place beside him; it’s a natural gesture and a fluid one, like beside Dean is where he’s meant to be. He doesn’t have mojo, but somehow he can move with a grace and ease and always take Dean by surprise, he’s one of the only people who can. 

He gently bumps his shoulder against Dean’s, looking out into the snowy night. 

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he says evenly, the hint of a smile on his lips. It’s a line that Dean’s used before, and Cas enjoys throwing back at him.

Dean just sighs and shrugs. 

“What are we doing?” Cas asks after a moment. The question is light, as if it doesn’t matter. Cas’ tone and posture indicate that there’s no rush, he could sit here with Dean indefinitely, and if the hunter’s reply was ‘waiting for Spring,’ Cas might go with it. Which is exactly the problem…Cas’ patience, his tolerance, his fucking insane belief that Dean is good enough...

Dean clenches his jaw but doesn’t answer.

Cas nods solemnly, “I see, stewing in our ruminations…a good pastime.” 

Dean’s eyes narrow, ninety-nine percent of the time (okay, probably ninety-six) he can tell when Cas is being sarcastic, or snarky, or an ass to get a rise out of him. This moment falls into the percentage of time (either one or four, or, you know if you want to go with Sam’s estimate, eighty-five) that Dean is clueless about what Cas is getting at and whether or not he’s screwing around. 

“Certainly, it’s an appropriate way to celebrate the holiday,” he continues, his breath misting in the air, “reflecting upon the year.”

Dean feels like his skin is on fire, like he’s dirty and tainted, and Cas needs to get the fuck away before Dean messes anything else up. He can feel the bitterness growing in his throat. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he spits.

Cas nods again, still regarding the falling snow, “You’re quite right, we should, both of us, be inside. I frequently say that your exaggeration of frostbite is a gross miscalculation but tonight, I believe that—”

“Jesus-fucking Christ-Cas,” Dean hisses, “don’t you fucking get it?”

Cas finally turns at Dean’s outburst, frowning just slightly.

“I’m that douche from the fucking movie,” Dean is almost shouting, “I fucking break everything I goddamn touch. You fucking jumped in the river to fucking save me, dude, and look what the fuck happened to you…you didn’t get your wings, you fucking lost them. Jesus. You’re fucking better off without me.”

Cas is seriously frowning now, “Though I am pleased, and I am sure that Sam would be as well, that you are engaging in ‘meta-analysis,’ I think that you are misinterpreting the general meaning of the—”

Dean does what he does best when thrown into a corner, he lashes out, hard and fast in the way that will hurt the most, “I don’t think I fucking am, Cas! Look what I’ve fucking done to you. Look what’s happened to you because of me. Jesus, fucking, mother-fucking—I broke you, man. Where are your wings, Cas, huh?”

Cas flinches, his shoulders hunch protectively, a phantom memory of a real injury and appendages that are lost to him, but his face stays steady and fixed on Dean, “They are gone,” he replies levelly.

Dean feels wetness on his face and he thinks that it’s errant snowflakes until Cas purses his lips and reaches out to brush his fingers gently over Dean’s cheeks. Cas shakes his head and it’s around this point that Dean realizes that the wetness on his face is from tears and that he’s been crying without realizing it. He sniffles, swallows; he’s embarrassed and ashamed, for lashing out at Cas for crying in the snow like a kid, for being the jack ass who fucks everything up no matter what. 

Cas rubs his thumb gently along Dean’s cheekbone, and traces the side of his face, before taking his hand, which he holds, tightly. His head is tilted as he regards Dean with a ferocity that reminds him of when they first met in that barn all those years ago, when Dean hadn’t believed in angels, and Cas had realized for the first of many times that Dean didn’t think he deserved saving. 

“Dean,” he says, like the word is a benediction and not a curse, “you never broke me.”

Dean looks super skeptical because he’s pretty sure that he literally broke Cas, several times, but Cas shakes his head, “I lost my wings, that’s true, and my grace. I have lost much…we all have, Dean,” Dean’s averts his gaze, but Cas uses his free hand to angle his chin back up, and to force him to meet his intense stare; it’s a bit overwhelming, “but do you understand what I’ve gained?” There is that same marveling in his voice as when he had asked “You think you don’t deserve to be saved?” as if Dean had missed something so obvious and so critical and so fundamental to Cas’ understanding of the universe. 

Dean wants to say a fat lot of nothing, a shitty human life, stuck here with me, being an ass hole, and Cas knows that’s what Dean wants to say and he shakes his head mournfully as if his inability to see what Cas sees is a tragedy.

“Dean, I have a soul,” he whispers, voice full, “I have free will and choice, I have a family, I have the chance to experience the world from a different perspective…I have a human life, Dean, and I want to spend it with you.”

“I’m not worth that, Cas,” his voice breaks on the words. I’m not worth that, I’m not worth you, I wasn’t worth any of this, you deserve better, I’m sorry.

“Dean,” Cas’ voice is laced with emotion, “you are worth everything,” he means it, too, “and it is my choice. I choose you,” he pauses and the corner of his mouth lifts, “my great misfortune is that you seem to constantly doubt this fact. Thankfully I will remind you, as often as necessary, for the rest of our lives…” he pauses, considering, “it is my hope that you will not need to be reminded with such frequency as time progresses.”

Dean laughs wetly, “You gonna wean me off of that?”

Cas regards him seriously, “Gradually. It is my hope that by the time we are in our eighties, you will only need me to remind you of your worth, twice a week.”

Dean does laugh that time and Cas smiles. 

“I don’t know why you put up with me, Cas,” he admits, and he seriously means it. He doesn’t get it, not at all; Cas was an angel, he was infinite and fathomless, immortal, powerful, and he gave all that up for this crummy mortal life. 

Cas leans forward and rests his forehead against Dean’s, “Because I love you, Dean Winchester.”

Dean’s breath catches, it’s like Cas stole it, and now he can’t say a damn thing.

“The point of the film,” he continues, while Dean’s brain tries to process the words that Cas said, “is that though life is hard and difficult, which it is, things are not quite as bad as they seem,” he meets Dean’s eyes with all the intensity that he can, “and the people that we care for are what make it worth that. It’s a good lesson,” and you can tell by his tone of voice that it’s one that he’s learned recently over the past few years and especially the past few months. 

Cas breaks eye contact for a moment to glance down at their intertwined fingers, “For a long time, I thought that falling was a punishment,” he looks back at Dean’s face and holds tight to his hand, “for my sins. I…and I did not want to be a burden to you, or have you feel beholden—obligated, to care for me,” Dean has a moment of pure shock because it never occurred to him to do anything else, because when he wasn’t feeling pissed at whoever had done this to Cas and fucking miserable for what had happened to him, he was secretly glad, that Cas had fallen right into his lap and could stay, for real…of course, he then felt monumentally guilty for that. 

“Cas, I never thought—” that you were a burden, that you were a punishment, that you were a fuck up, that’s what I am, not you, never you. 

“Then why would you ever think that you were those things to me?” Cas is earnest, “Dean, it took me time, but falling was a gift, for me, please, don’t think it was otherwise.” He squeezes Dean’s hand, and Dean leans forward and kisses Cas, soft, just a simple press of lips. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it.

“I know.”

They sit for a few moments, quietly in the snow and it’s peaceful, while Dean contemplates what an idiot he is and how fucking lucky he is, which put that on the list of things he never thought he’d consider himself. He reflects on the enormity of what Cas has given up for him and the magnitude of how far they’ve come together. 

“Would you like your gift now?” Cas asks, and Dean wants to say that he doesn’t deserve anything else, but Cas wards that retort away with a narrowing of his eyes. So Dean grins a little.

“Sure.”

Cas pulls a small envelop from his pocket and hands it to Dean. It’s light and he opens it carefully, spilling the gift into his hand.

It’s a familiar pendant on a leather chord, a Christmas gift from years ago, one that he thought that he’d never see again. It’s an accustomed weight and texture in his hand and he closes his fist around it.

“Where the hell did you get this?” 

Cas shrugs, “I went back for it, and Sam kept it safe for me.”

Dean isn’t sure what to say, “I—,” his voice catches, because this means so much for so many reasons.

“I know that your relationship with my father is, ah, ‘complicated,’ but I thought perhaps,” he fidgets, the only break in his stoic façade, “that it might remind you to have faith…in me.”

Dean bites his lip, blinks against the burning sensation in his eyes, “I think I can do that,” he responds gruffly, “Thank you, Cas.”

Cas smiles, glowing, and Dean kisses him fiercely. Cas fastens the necklace around Dean’s throat, and Dean wraps his arms around Cas and kisses his temple. They watch the snow for a while, and Dean wants to remember this moment, the rightness of it, like the calm after a storm. They go inside after a few minutes because it is freezing, and Cas reminds Dean that there’s still some apple pie left. 

They’re just in time for the last scene of the movie.

“Glad you two, idjits didn’t freeze to death,” Bobby greets.

“You owe me ten bucks,” Sam asserts. His face lights up like the Christmas tree when he sees Dean’s necklace.

Sam and Dean get pie, and Cas makes cocoa and they all end up back in the living room. It’s a Wonderful Life comes on again, and this time Dean watches it, calm and content and unbearably grateful with Cas lying half on top of him. Bobby goes up to bed, wishing them a Merry Christmas as he goes. 

Sam’s yawns become more frequent and eventually he heads to bed as well, ““You sure you guys don’t wanna come up?”

“Nah, we’re good,” Dean replies, arm tight around Cas.

“We don’t want to miss the good part…again,” Cas’ look at Dean is mischievously, and Dean rolls his eyes and sticks out his tongue, because he’s a grown up.

Sam laughs, “Merry Christmas, jerk.”

“You too, bitch,” they’re both smiling.

“Merry Christmas, Sam,” Cas grins.

“You too, Cas.”

It’s just the two of them now. The lights of the tree shine over the both of them as they slide down onto the sofa, so that Cas’ head is pillowed on Dean’s chest, and they watch the movie. George Bailey finds himself in a world where he never existed because he thinks that everyone would be better off without him, but it turns out, that’s not true at all. Dean has honestly lost count of the number of times that he’s known for a fact in his bones that the world would be better off without him, that everyone would be better off: Cas and Sam and Bobby, Jess, Ellen and Jo and Ash, and everyone that’s ever died because of him. Now, though, with Cas lying beside him, and Sam and Bobby asleep upstairs, and finale unfolding on the screen, Dean isn’t so sure anymore. He’s happy and he’s thankful, and he doesn’t regret it, the path that brought him here. He feels Cas’ breathing start to even and slow, he can feel the familiar and new weight of the pendent on his chest, and hear Cas’ words in his head: “I love you…have faith in me.” 

Dean’s jaw clenches. He’s tense; he’s been waiting to do this for months, all day. He moves slowly and carefully, with deliberation, he doesn’t want to dislodge Cas. It’s a simple gesture, but a momentous one. He takes of the silver ring he’s worn nearly all his life, the one that used to be his mom’s, and he slides it onto Cas’ hand without any fuss. Cas’ fingers are slender, elegant even, they’re hands for healing, and Dean bites his lip, waiting. Cas blinks at the light reflected off the band, then he closes his fist, keeping the ring in place. He looks up at Dean and his eyes are over bright, full of wonder. 

“If you want it,” Dean offers. I’m yours if you want me, always.

Cas kisses him, rests his forehead against Dean’s as the credits roll, “I do.”

Dean smiles, he feels like his heart might be exploding, but in a good way. 

“Merry Christmas, Dean,” Cas says, settling once more onto Dean’s chest in that hollow by his collarbone where his face seems to fit perfectly.

“I love you,” Dean replies, without even thinking, like it’s something he’s been saying every day forever, and not something that he’s never said before, to anyone. He can feel Cas smile against his chest and his arm tightens around Dean’s middle. 

Cas whispers that Enochian phrase into Dean’s chest, “Beloved one,” and Dean holds him tight, he doesn’t want to ever let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for taking the time to read this story! I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. I’m sorry it’s taken so long to finish. I would really love to hear your thoughts, reviews are always appreciated. I’m sorry if it got too sentimental at the end (or throughout). I could really stop here, this story was meant to end with Christmas Day, but someone expressed a desire to meet Elizabeth at New Year’s, which I can totally do, if it’s something you’re interested in as an epilogue (probably published separately?). I’m hoping to write a story about the months that precede this with Cas falling and settling into humanity. In the future, if I ever express the desire to write a holiday fic, please, for the love of all things holy, restrain me from doing so, because I can seem myself writing a follow up to this next year, and I don’t want you to suffer through that. Anyway, THANK YOU SO MUCH, for reading this. Merry Christmas, love, and hugs.


	8. Since We've No Place to Go (New Year's Epilogue)

“Dude, if you don’t hurry up, we’re gonna be late.”

Dean knocks again on the bathroom door. He swears it’s been like fifteen minutes. He’s starting to worry that Cas has drowned in the sink, electrocuted himself with Sam’s hair drier, or escaped out of the window…from the second story—seriously, this shit could happen; Dean wouldn’t put it past him…

“What’s the hold up?” Bobby comes towards Dean, who shrugs, “Feathers polishing his halo?”

“One: that sounds kinky. Two: Damned if I know,” Dean rolls his eyes, “But—” he directs this part pointedly to the closed bathroom door, “—if he doesn’t hurry the fuck up, Sam is gonna murder us.”

Bobby shakes his head, “I’ll meet you idjits downstairs.”

Dean knocks again, “I will leave you here, don’t think I won’t.” In all honesty, they both know that there is no way in hell that that’s happening. If Dean has to go to a New Year’s Eve Party, then Cas has to come too, especially given that they’re finally going to meet Sam’s girl and there is no fucking way that he’s gonna suffer through this meet the parents travesty by himself—even if it was technically his idea. 

“I will break down the door,” he threatens, deadpan and serious. 

“I do not want to go,” Cas replies through the wood paneling; apparently he is using the bathroom to skulk. Awesome. 

“Sure, ya do,” Dean counters.

“No, I don’t.”

“C’mon, dude, we promised Sam. You don’t wanna disappoint him do you?” Dean knows that using Sam for guilt tripping purposes might be considered playing dirty, but this is an extreme circumstance…

He waits a beat, leaning against the door frame, hands in his pockets, “Cas,” he lets the desperation creep into his voice a little bit, “please?” Apparently that’s the magic word because the door flies open, and Dean stumbles briefly before catching himself. 

“Woah,” Dean says. He can’t quite help it. Cas cleans up nice. Well, Cas always looks pretty damn good as far as Dean is concerned, but he usually goes for comfort teetering on eccentric (the latter not on purpose…at least, Dean doesn’t think so). Once he ditched the holy tax accountant get-up, he started off stealing overlarge clothes from the Winchester brothers (he still steals t-shirts from Dean) and then moved on to choosing his own, but he tends to stay in the realm of bulky sweaters and brightly colored t-shirts with weird symbols or corny jokes. But tonight, well, he must have put in the extra effort for Elizabeth’s New Year’s Eve bash (it’s also possible that Sam laid out his attire, like he did for Dean). He’s wearing jeans and a black button down shirt—crisp sleeves rolled up to the elbow, exposing the muscles of his forearms—with a lime green tie strung loose around his neck. His hair, wild and unruly at the best of times, has something in it (presumably gel or moose or some crap that he stole from the cache of hair products that Sam tries to hide with little success). Dean thinks that Cas probably meant for it to give the mess some semblance of order, but instead it has lent it an exuberant spike. Dean’s not gonna lie, it’s hot. Cas is glaring—full on, angry, smiting, I-will-fuck-someone-up glaring. It does nothing to mitigate the fact that he looks sexy as fuck. Dean resolves to take Cas out to some fancy ass restaurant for the sole purpose of getting him back into this getup and then getting him out of it. 

“Lookin’ good, Cas,” he says.

Cas narrows his eyes. 

Dean sighs; charm is clearly not going to work, “What’s up?”

Cas’ jaw clenches, “I don’t want to go.”

Dean sighs, stepping forward and taking Cas’ tie in his hands, starting to redo the knot. Cas lets him, which is probably a good sign. As he loops the satin, Dean, shoots a glance at Cas’s face from beneath his lashes, “So you wanna tell me what gives? You were excited about this yesterday.”

Dean can feel the scowl like a tangible thing, “I was not.”

“Really?” 

“Really.”

“So it was another hot dude in the kitchen telling Sam how stoked he was about going to the party,” he purses his lips. 

“I suppose so,” Cas says with total innocence.

“Musta been my mistake,” Dean agrees.

“Must have been.”

They are clearly at a stalemate. Dean breaks first, brows hitting his hairline accusatorily, “You made spinach puffs, Cas.”

“Because you have a vitamin deficiency.”

“My ass.”

“Deeaaannn,” Cas rolls his eyes.

He finishes the knot and then lays it flat on Cas’ chest, “There ya go,” he raises his brows, “Now you wanna level with me?”

“I don’t like people,” he admits grudgingly.

“Sure ya do,” Dean offers. 

Cas looks dubious, his jaw clenches, and he tugs self-consciously at his sleeves. The light catches on his ring, which continues to give Dean a proud, joyful little thrill in his stomach every time he sees it. But it also draws Dean’s attention to the skin just below Cas’ cuff, and the faint scars on the backs of his arms, not half as noticeable as the ones on his back. They all have their share of old wounds, visible and invisible. Dean honestly doesn’t particularly notice Cas’ scars, not since they’ve healed, and only when and if Cas draws attention to them....but that’s not the way it is with everyone—with people who stare or ask awkward questions that Cas can’t answer because he can’t tell the truth and he’s a shit liar…and something clicks in Dean’s head…

Cas can deal with people, sometimes, sort of. Other times, he can’t handle crowds to save his life. Apparently, tonight is one of those nights. 

It’s kind of ironic that someone who previously had no conception of personal space spent the first few months as a human freaking the fuck out whenever anyone entered his. Maybe it was because he hated being touched, perhaps it was because he had limited senses and felt unprepared to defend himself if necessary, probably it had a lot to do with just not knowing the rules of social engagement and being constantly overwhelmed by the alien references and false sympathies and brusque gestures. 

The first time they had taken Cas to get some of his own clothes at a random department store, he had had a complete and utter panic attack and flipped out in the middle of the men’s shoes. It had taken Sam and Dean a full half hour to figure out exactly what had happened. That sort of thing occurs more rarely now, in part because Cas is adapting and in part because they’re all figuring out his limits. Cas does better with quality rather than quantity in dealing with people. If you put him in a situation with a huge group he is lost and will probably mis-step somehow, leading to extreme awkwardness, which may or may not result in him getting frustrated and annoyed or upset. In small doses and small settings and one-on-one encounters, Cas actually does great. If you get him started about something that he actually knows about, or finds interesting, he’s totally fine. 

The Winchesters have always been a bit isolated from civilians, wrapped up in their own world, so it’s not like either of them go out of their way to make play dates for Cas (or what Sam would call “opportunities for proper socialization”). Honestly, Dean doesn’t really care one way or another provided Cas is happy, and, to be totally frank, it’s not like Dean himself is exactly a role model for how to function in society in anything remotely resembling a normal way…he’s built a career out of cons, one-night stands, drifting from place to place, and having borderline zero close relationships outside of family. He is so not judging, and in the issue of full disclosure (ha), Dean might sorta be a little bit possessive and/or over-protective to the point where he has no problem keeping Cas away from the majority of douche bags in the universe. 

“I don’t like people,” he repeats. This time Dean hears it differently, it sounds a little bit more along the lines of “I don’t understand people and they don’t like me, and I don’t want to fuck up everything for Sam”

Dean’s gaze softens, “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

Cas frowns, confused by Dean’s sudden change of opinion; he realizes he’s fiddling with his sleeves and stops, rubbing his arm self-consciously. 

“What about Sam?”

Dean shrugs, “Sam will live.”

Cas blinks slowly.

“I’m not gonna force you,” Dean says, “You don’t wanna go, we’ll chill here, order a pizza, take advantage of an empty house, whatever you want.”

“You want to go,” Cas maintains.

“I don’t care, dude,” he’s serious, too, “I don’t wanna go if you’re gonna be miserable, and you’re more fun than any of those assholes at the party anyway…” Dean catches Cas’ gaze, “But if you do wanna go? We’ll go and we’ll make nice with the civilians and tease the hell out of Sam and have fun and we’ll tap out as soon as you’re ready, okay? But it’s your call.”

Cas bites his lip and rubs his thumb against the back of his arm again, Dean reaches out, stops him, “It doesn’t matter what any douchebag thinks, okay? You’re awesome. If those dicks don’t see that, screw them.”

The corner of Cas’ mouth twitches, “Thank you, Dean.”

“Yeah, well…” Dean shrugs, squeezes Cas hand, “I’ll meet you downstairs, let me know what you decide, all right?”

Once he makes it to the living room, he flops onto the sofa. Like him, Bobby has dressed somewhere between his casual every day clothes and impersonating an FBI agent. He wonders if Sam forced him to trim his beard.

“What’s up with Cas?”

“The usual,” Dean gives Bobby a look, and the older man raises his brows, “You might be going without us.”

“No,” Dean turns swiftly, Cas standing in the doorway, “he isn’t. Are you ready, Dean?”

“Sure, yeah.”

The shrug on winter gear, and Cas grabs the food. Dean and Cas pile in the Impala, Bobby plans to follow in his car. 

“You sure about this?” Dean asks, while Cas puts on the radio, he lets him choose the station (soft-rock, calms both of their nerves).

“I’m fine, Dean,” he replies, “relax.”

Dean rolls his eyes and shakes his head because going from crisis to totally fine in fifteen minutes is not the usual. They decide that Dean won’t hover (“I don’t do that.” Cas levels a disbelieving stare), and that if Cas wants to leave (“For any reason at all”) he will give Dean a signal—double earlobe tug—and they will get the fuck out of there a.s.a.p.

Elizabeth lives on the other side of town; it’s a fifteen minute drive. Dean pulls up at the address and lets the Impala idle for a minute. The house is an old Victorian, it’s got a turret, and all the lights are on, casting a muted golden light onto the snow covered lawn. He turns to Cas; “You ready?”

“Are you?” Cas tilts his head. 

“Sure,” he lies quickly because maybe Dean’s a little nervous about this, too. Cas would notice: he always does. Internally, Dean is freaking out because, dude, it’s a dinner party with Sam and his girlfriend and you can’t get more fucking domestic if you tried. Plus, he’s never really done this before. He met Jessica for about five minutes before she died, and Madison for a little more. He had gotten along pretty well with Sarah for the few days that he had known her. He can’t even use Sam meeting Cas as a template for what’s about to occur, since Sam had known Cas and become friends with him over a long period of time, despite their awkward and uncomfortable first encounter, and way before Dean and Cas had officially become Dean-and-Cas (which Sam had basically been a cheerleader for). He sure as fuck isn’t going to use any of his own experiences with meeting Cas family, considering that they have literally killed him, multiple times. Dean knows he shouldn’t flirt with the girl and he should potentially avoid seriously embarrassing Sam, and, you know, try to make sure that Cas doesn’t have a breakdown while he’s at it. He’s got no idea what he’s doing and he doesn’t have a model for this beyond fucking sitcoms. He sighs, “You know the signal?” He’s unsure, in this moment, which of them will use it first. 

Cas nods, and takes his hand, “It will be all right, Dean.”

Dean smiles reassuringly and leans forward for a quick kiss, “Let’s do this.”

“Don’t forget to be nice,” Cas elbows him slightly as they walk up the path the house, trying to diffuse the tension.

Dean laughs and bumps against his shoulder, “I’m always nice.”

Cas just smirks.

They ring the bell, and Sam opens the door after about five seconds, like a fucking golden retriever who’s been waiting on the welcome mat for his master to come home. He’s got a slightly wild look on his face: nerves and excitement warring for dominance. 

“Heya, Sammy.”

“Where have you guys been?”

“We took the scenic route.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“Sam, are you going to leave your brother on the porch?”

A woman comes up behind Sam. She has sharp grey eyes and long, dark hair pulled back in a braid. She gives a crooked smile when she spots Dean and Cas, like she’s genuinely happy to see them. She’s got an athletic build and she’s tall, comes up to Sam’s shoulder. She’s dressed in a soft grey shirt and dark blue jeans. Sam puts his arm around her without thinking, it looks like a habitual gesture, and they fit together just right. Dean is momentarily taken aback by the way Sam’s face lights up. 

Elizabeth offers her hand, “You must be Dean.”

“My reputation precedes me,” he smirks.

Her grin widens, “Sam says you’re a pain in the ass, actually.” 

Dean laughs sharply. She’s got spunk, he likes that, “Well, he’s not lying.”

“I told him not to worry; I deal with thirteen year olds on a fairly regular basis,” she winks, and Sam rolls his eyes.

“Then you are well prepared,” Cas deadpans.

“Hey!”

“You must be Cas,” Elizabeth offers her hand, and Cas accepts it solemnly, “it’s so nice to meet you. Please, come in.”

They shrug out of their coats, and Elizabeth leads Cas and the spinach puffs to the kitchen. Sam asks if everything is okay (“just had a little trouble, it’s all good now”), before taking Dean into the sitting room. The house is warm and inviting and clearly lived in. There are pictures on the walls, family photos, and paintings. The chairs and sofa are squashy and mildly mismatched, and padded with pillows and throw blankets, promising comfort. Bobby is positioned in an armchair, and when the boys come in, he shoots Dean a “took you long enough, boy,” glare. There are two young women seated on the sofa. One has shoulder length blond hair and a fine build. Sam introduces her as Elizabeth’s younger sister Kate. Dean notices that the siblings share the same deep grey eyes. The woman next to her, with red curls pulled back in a ponytail and a face full of freckles, is Kate’s partner, Julie. 

Cas and Elizabeth come in from the kitchen—Cas looks pretty content like he approves, or, at the very least, doesn’t have any immediate plans to cast Sam’s girlfriend into the firey pits of hell. He walks over to Dean and places his hand on his shoulder, confirming that he’s still okay and reassuring Dean at once, just in time to find out that Kate is a third year med student and Julie is getting a PhD in art history. He is almost immediately sucked into a conversation about the architecture of medieval French churches with Julie and Sam. The three of them are all animated and geeking out like it’s their job. Bobby shakes his head. Elizabeth, Dean, and Kate all roll their eyes in perfect synchronization—the look of someone whose significant other is a serious nerd—catch each other in the act, and laugh. Elizabeth ruffles Kate’s hair, and Kate glares and sticks out her tongue. Dean chuckles and shares the commiserating stare of the put-open older sibling with Elizabeth when Kate tugs her braid. Bobby asks about Kate’s school, and she launches into a story about a particularly grisly session in the ER. She’s passionate and she wants to help people and Dean gets that, respects it. Elizabeth gives her a proud smile while her sister expands on the importance of patient care, and Dean gets that too, it’s the same look he sometimes gives to Sam behind his back. 

Elizabeth, Dean, and Kate steal Sam away from the art history class and into their debate between Lord of the Rings and Star Wars because apparently epic trilogies win out over Ryan Seacrest in this house (“New Year’s Even tradition; we did Indiana Jones last year, but we’ve reached an impasse”). Dean approves. Sam slides into place behind Elizabeth and the two of them trade snark and kisses, even though they’re on opposite sides in the dispute, and even Dean can admit that it’s fucking adorable. They both look happy. Dean is supporting Lord of the Rings with Elizabeth; Kate and Sam are both vying for Star Wars. Bobby calls them all idjits and ditches them to join in Cas and Julies’s ongoing conversation about religious iconography. After a half an hour, they’re still undecided, and Sam proposes that they compromise by watching Harry Potter; this suggestion is met with outright disgust by everyone else. 

Elizabeth’s friends show up at seven thirty: Nick and Alice are a married couple and know Elizabeth from college. They come in with smiles and apologies because their sitter canceled last minute and they had to bring four-year-old Sari, who wanders in wide eyed, wearing red rain boots and a bright blue dress with yellow butterflies printed on it, and half hiding behind her mom’s legs. Alice and Nick are almost immediately dragged into the Great Movie Marathon Debate. There is a lot of noise in the room, jovial ribbing, and heated banter:

“—Dean, this is a betrayal of trust—”

“—Sam, it’s fucking Lord of the Rings, man, it’s epic—”

“—More epic than Star Wars, Dean—?”

“—Your brother has good taste, Sam—”

“—Ugh, not you too...don’t go to the dark side—”

“—Julie, could you maybe come and help save me from these cretins over here—?”

“—Are those three speaking French—?”

“—Dude, be thankful it’s not ancient Greek—”

“—You guys do know that if you don’t choose something soon, you’re not going to have time for anything, right—?”

They’re saved by Sari, who slides off of Alice’s lap, after watching the conversation with a concerted expression of absorption, and makes a beeline for Cas, clutching a canvas bag filled with books. She tugs on his arm, disrupting the intense discussion he’s having with Julie and Bobby (which is, in fact, being conducted in French), and offers him The Cat in the Hat with a very grave expression.

“Please?” she asks, and Cas accepts the offer with equal solemnity, and politely excuses himself to Julie and Bobby, letting Sari lead him to a corner where he sinks cross-legged to the floor and she promptly crawls into his lap.

Dean feels something strange stir in his stomach at the sight, and he has to look away quickly before he can analyze it. With Julie in the debate they are an even split (Bobby refuses to weigh in one way or the other because they’re all being ‘idjits’), and they finally agree to compromise, provided that they watch the original trilogy, and Lord of the Rings gets top billing next year. Kate and Elizabeth shake to seal the deal. Kate launches herself at the DVD player, while Julie rolls her eyes. Elizabeth kisses Sam before heading to the kitchen to check on the food. Dean glances over at Cas and Sari, and feels that weird sensation again. He shares a look with Sam before excusing himself to go see if Elizabeth needs any help as the opening score of the movie plays. 

Elizabeth is pulling Cas’ spinach puffs out of the oven when Dean walks in.

“Need a hand, Lizzie?”

She looks up and laughs, “Only my brother calls me that,” She tosses Dean a dish towel and he catches it deftly.

“You have a brother?”

“Yeah, Jamie,” she hands a serving plate to Dean, who starts to put the spinach puffs on it, “well, James—he hates being called Jamie,” she rolls her eyes like she will never stop referring to her baby brother by the name he grew up with, “He’s a senior at Michigan, but term starts the day after tomorrow,” she shrugs, “so he had to fly back yesterday.”

“So—” Dean’s about to launch into the “hurt my brother and die speech,” but Elizabeth cuts him off.

“Look, Dean,” She makes sure the pizzas in the oven aren’t burning, and then meets his eyes squarely, bracing herself against the counter, “you don’t have to give me the speech.”

“What speech?” He tries to look innocent, and she rolls her eyes.

“The same one I gave Julie four years ago, the ‘hurt one hair on his head and I will hunt you down’ speech.”

She bites her lower lip, while Dean tries to protest, even though that was exactly what he was going to do. 

“Look, my parents died five years ago,” she beings, which effectively kills what he was about to say, “car crash. I had just started my job, Jamie was a senior in high school, and Kate was a junior in college. We had always been close, you know? But something like that…your life just falling apart—suddenly we were all each other had…I’m taking care of two teenagers and trying to be a grown up and grieving and not having a clue what the fuck to do—” she clears her throat, and Dean just sort of stares, taken aback. Sam didn’t say anything about this, and Dean, well, he feels for her, some wounds don’t ever really heal…

She continues, “I wasn’t kidding earlier, Sam really did warn me that you were a pain in the ass,” that startles a laugh out of him, and she smiles a little despite herself before sobering and going on, “but he also said you were the best man he’s ever known, and that after you guys lost your parents, you basically raised him…I guess, what I’m trying to say is that I understand how important family is. And I understand how much you care about your brother because I feel the same way about my brother and sister...Sam is—he’s amazing, really, and I would never do anything to hurt him. You don’t have to worry, okay?”

Dean and Elizabeth share a look, they both know that he’s going to worry anyway, but there’s an understanding there. Dean nods. He likes her. 

She smiles brightly, “Good, now that that’s cleared up, you wanna help me with these?”

“Sure,” they start to slice up the pizzas and it’s comfortable between them. They have a sense of mutual respect. Also, Elizabeth is lively and funny. She tells him about how her brother got a full ride to college, and is majoring in English, and how Kate is always trying, and epically failing, to lure him to the sciences. He’s going to be in the school production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof in a few months, and she admits that she’s thinking of asking Sam if he wants to go with her to see it. Dean encourages her to do so since “Sammy is a big fan of theater,” and he launches into a detailed story about Sam’s starring role in Our Town. They’re both laughing while she counters with the harrowing tale of Jamie’s freshman year turn in Into the Woods, complete with an impression of his solo (“I love my brother, but the boy cannot sing to save his life”), and how she and Kate had tried to compensate for the crappy reviews with ice cream and threats to the school newspaper. Dean thinks that he might love this girl. They’ve just about finished loading up trays, when Sam comes in, presumably to make sure that no one is dead or injured. When he sees them smiling and joking, he grins (you can almost tell that he’s been holding his breath the whole night up until this point because having his brother and his girlfriend tolerate, let alone, actually like each other, is kind of his belated Christmas miracle). He tells them both that they’re missing the movie, and they draft him to help him carry plates.

They lay food out on the coffee table and everyone digs in except for Cas, who is still sitting in the corner with Sari. They’re both laughing at something, and Dean realizes suddenly that the weird sensation that’s growing in his chest is longing. He pushes it down and walks over to the source, dropping down to the floor beside Cas.

“Watcha reading?”

“’Melia Bedelia,” Sari offers, grinning ear-to-ear.

“It’s quite humorous, Dean,” confirms.

“I can tell,” he smirks.

“Cas didn’t like Cat in the Hat,” the young girl crinkles her nose and shakes her head a little bit, “cause of how the cat makes a mess.”

“It was frustrating,” Cas confirms.

They’re both wearing the same sincere expression. Cas is good with kids, or kids are good with Cas. Dean’s pretty sure that it’s because Cas treats them like people, because they are, just tiny, and he thinks that it also have something to do with the fact that both Cas and children are trying to figure out a world built on rules that don’t always make a lot of sense—he can relate easily.

“You got a lotta books there, Sari,” he notes, gesturing towards her book bag and she lights up, nodding vigorously.

“Santa gave ‘em to me for Christmas,” she’s grinning bright and enthusiastic. Dean looks at Cas worried for a moment that he will crush the kid’s dreams, but Cas only inclines his head.

“You must have been very good this year to receive so many presents.”

Sari bounces a little bit, “Uhuh.”

Dean is trying really hard to quell that rising feeling in his chest, but it’s becoming more difficult with every passing second.

“You mind if I join you?” he asks.

Cas looks to Sari for confirmation, and she considers Dean for a minute, like this is a major life decision, before she agrees, “’Kay. 

“Take it away, Cas,” he directs. 

The story is simple and it is kinda funny about a girl who takes directions too literally and messes stuff up, but it ends happily. Cas is actually cracking up to the same degree that Sari is, and Dean chuckles appreciatively at their laughter. The awesome thing is that Cas would literally not have gotten any of these jokes a year or two ago, but can appreciate them now. 

The get through this book and one more before Elizabeth (who Sari calls Nell—which they discover later is a contraction of Aunt El that stuck) comes over to see if she wants a cupcake. The response is obviously a four year old version of “hell fucking yeah,” which Sari pronounces as “yay!” as she launches herself to her feet and into Elizabeth’s arms in five seconds flat. 

“What do you say to Cas?”

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

“How come you didn’t offer us cupcakes?” Dean quips, “I feel left out here.”

“Because you don’t need one,” Elizabeth smirks, “There is some nice fruit over on the table.”

Dean sticks his tongue out, cause he’s an adult, and Sari stage whispers, “I’ll get you one, Dean,” conspiratorially from behind her hand, causing the grown-ups to laugh. 

Lizzie carries Sari over to her mom and the cupcakes, and Dean and Cas stay behind for a minute.

“Are you all right, Dean?” Cas inquires.

“Huh?” Dean shakes himself, “yeah, fine.”

“Are you certain?”

“Uhuh.”

“I believe that Elizabeth was ‘pulling your leg.’ No one will deny you a cupcake,” Cas is earnest. 

“Ha, I know, thanks,” Dean kisses Cas and then gets up, pulling Cas to his feet and joining the rest of the group. They’re getting to the good part of the movie. Sam is raptly focused (A New Hope was always his favorite). Elizabeth is sitting half on his lap. Bobby is dozing in the arm chair. Kate is positioned next to Sam, legs folded, staring at the screen; Julie has her head resting on her lap, while Kate absent-mindedly run her fingers through her hair. Nick and Alice are leaning against each other on the floor, whispering. Dean and Cas settle on the other sofa, Dean puts his arm around Cas’ shoulders, and Cas draws his knees to his chest: their typical movie watching position. Dean presses a soft kiss to Cas’ temple, causing him to smile shyly. 

The room is warm and comfortable and Dean imagines that this might be what normal families do for holidays. A bunch of people just sort of piled together, enjoying each other’s company and good food and joking and arguing and being themselves. He briefly pictures a scene like this, with his mom (who would have fucking loved Cas) and Dad and Bobby. Ellen and Jo and Ash. Sam and Elizabeth and maybe even…he can see it so clearly he can almost taste it, and he has to shake the image away before it goes any farther into the realm of the impossible.

Sari toddles over to sit with Lizzie and Sam. She eats her cupcake and makes a mess with the icing, while the two adults explain the plot to her in hushed voices. Dean watches the three of them for a little while: the way that Lizzie plays with Sari’s hair, and Sam explains the Force (using the same terms that Dean had used for him decades ago). When Sari says that Cas is like Obi-Wan, and they chuckle appreciatively and agree. They look strangely like a family, and Dean realizes something quickly and with startling clarity. Too many revelations on the eve of a new year, jesus, his brain needs to give him some fucking time to process this shit. He has to talk to Sam, now. Right fucking now. 

His opportunity comes when Kate moves to put on Empire Strikes Back, while Julie grumbles at the disruption to her position. Dean offers to go get everyone drinks.

“You wanna give me a hand, Sammy?”

Cas gives him a quizzical look, but Sam agrees readily, while Alice, Elizabeth, and Nick reminisce about the year they went to a Halloween party as Luke, Leia, and Han. Bobby would have given the boys a knowing look if not for the fact that he was softly snoring.

As soon as they get to the kitchen, Dean carefully closes the door behind them and rounds on his brother. He should have been more suspicious of Sam’s ready acquiescence to this little intermission, and he almost kicks himself in the head, because Sam is the one that starts the conversation and he would choose the subject that Dean least wants to discuss.

“Cas is really good with Sari, huh?” Sam’s got a knowing look in his eyes, and Dean bristles and recoils.

“That’s not why I dragged you in here,” he counters defensive.

His brother shrugs, “I’m just saying, do you two ever think about—?”

“No, that’s—” Dean takes a steadying breath and deflects, “we haven’t talked about it. And it wouldn’t work and—”

“Dean—”

“—that’s not what we’re talking about, Sammy, drop it,” Sam opens empty palms in a gesture of surrender, though; Dean recognizes that it’s only a temporary peace. This is going to come up again, and, when it does, Dean is going to run away, fast and far, and he needs to come up with a foolproof escape plan because, fuck, what if Sam and Cas talk about this behind his back…he thinks he might throw up.

“Fine,” Sam sighs, “What are we talking about then?”

They’re speaking in forceful whispers with half an eye to the door because if someone were to walk in, shit could get really awkward really fast, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but, Sam, you need to tell her.”

“Huh?”

He looks genuinely confused, and Dean shakes his head, “Lizzie, you need to tell her. About you. About us. About Cas. The whole damn thing.”

“Dude,” Sam is looking at Dean like he’s concerned for his sanity, “Have you lost your mind?”

“Have you?”

“Dean, five years ago, you would have told me to leave her after five seconds.”

“I know, all right,” Dean allows, “Fuck, I can’t believe I’m saying this. But, Sammy, five years ago things were different.”

Sam’s expression is focused, concerned, and almost frightened.

“I realized something, okay—”

“That communication is an important part of a healthy relationship?” Sam raises his brow, incredulity writ large on his face.

“Jesus, yes,” Dean says this like it physically hurts, “but actually, dude, I sort of figured out why everyone around us dies—”

“Because we’re cursed?”

“No—”

“Because it’s Tuesday?”

“—Dude, I’m being serious here—”

Sam shrugs, “So am I.” Dean feels deflated and defeated and miserable. This whole fucking thing goddamn sucks ass.

“Sam, shit happens because people don’t know what’s out there, man,” he says, “look at all those dumb sons of bitches we help…just cause they don’t know what’s in the dark, doesn’t mean what’s in the dark isn’t gonna get them. Look at Jess? Look at mom and dad? Look at you and me? Dude, I saw you out there with Lizzie and the kid and I just thought—I saw the two of you with your own rugrat, and I need to know that some fucking demon spawn isn’t gonna swoop in and set fire to the nursery or the bedroom or whatever. Because you can’t go through at again, none of us can…” he licks his lips.

“Dean—”

“And I know it’s supposed to be over, but, dude, maybe we are cursed, but we need to protect the people around us as best we can, and that means that you need to fucking tell them and prepare them…just in case.”

“Dean—”

“You’re into the holiday thing, make it your new year’s resolution if you have to, but you have to do it.”

Sam looks simultaneously like an old man and a nervous child. It makes Dean realize anew all the loses that they’ve had, as well as how much Sam really does like this girl and how much he doesn’t want to lose her when he says: “What if she thinks that I’m crazy?”

Dean flashes to conversations with Cassie and Lisa and then back, “Then she thinks you’re crazy, but Cas and Bobby and I will back you up.”

Sam looks resigned but nods. 

Dean breathes a sigh, “Okay, good.” 

They rejoin the group. Everyone is deeply engrossed in the movie. Sari falls asleep and Nick and Alice leave with hugs and kind farewells at around 10:30. The commotion wakes Bobby, who denies ever having fallen asleep in the first place. Julie keeps a running countdown until midnight. Everyone except for Cas and Bobby quotes the ongoing dialogue. They eat and drink and joke. Dean finally gets his cupcake and takes disgustingly huge bites of it while staring pointedly at Elizabeth. She retaliates by throwing several grapes at his head. Cas eats them, and scolds Dean for misbehaving, and Dean maintains that “you know you love it” and kisses him with icing covered lips. Cas licks the sticky sugary mess off of his mouth slowly and appreciatively, and Dean smirks, so it’s all good. 

Kate and Elizabeth get into a heated debate Lucas’ skills (or lack thereof) as a storyteller and everyone quickly chimes in. Cas gives a nice analysis about Dagobah and the relationship between Buddhism and Jedi traditions. Dean is relatively sure that Julie is going to kidnap Cas and bring him to class for show and tell—at the very least, Cas has made a new email-buddy. Bobby complains about the abrupt end to the second film, which gets everyone talking about the pros and cons of the trilogy format. Elizabeth and Cas bond over their shared frustration with Darth Vadar’s reaction to the news that he’s a father: 

“This does nothing to further the filial bond they might share,” Cas is still frustrated by this on his third viewing of the film. 

“Seriously,” Elizabeth maintains, “I don’t get his logic here, if your wife tragically dies, can’t you like project the affection onto your estranged kid rather than chopping off his hand.” 

Dean laughs and Sam argues that, “He’s a dark lord of the sith, there’s been a lot of brain washing…also, pretty sure he’s basically a different person.” 

Kate is impressed by his argument. 

Jamie calls to wish his sisters a Happy New Year at 11:30, while the group is starting Return of the Jedi. They fight over the phone a little bit and yell while the other is talking. They’re acting like teenagers, or Sam and Dean, and they seem stoked to hear their brother’s voice. They tell him to behave, since it’s apparent that he’s calling from a party, and roll their eyes in unison at his response. 

Sam and Elizabeth pass out champagne glasses while the rebels are beginning to plan their attack. Dean pulls Cas close as the clock ticks. Julie and Kate are whispering to each other. Bobby is finally getting into the movie. Everyone is relaxed, and they count down the last thirty seconds all together. Bobby says he’s too old for this shit. Sam and Elizabeth make doe eyes at one another. Julie is kissing Kate’s neck, making her giggle. Cas is focused on the dwindling moments of the dying year, and Dean chuckles and presses their foreheads together so that they’re using the same air for the last ten seconds. 

“Nine, Eight, Seven,” Dean cheats and presses his lips to Cas’ before the hit the last digits.

“Six, Five, Four,” Bobby raises his glass to the room at large.

“Three,” Sam beams at his brother, before tucking an errant lock of hair behind Lizzie’s ear. She blushes, he smiles.

“Two,” Kate and Julie start full on making out.

“One!” Dean’s hand cradles Cas jaw, angling his face, deepening his kiss, while their tongues meet, tasting sweetness. Cas trails his hand along Dean’s side. They pull back smiling and wishing each other and everyone else a happy new year. The three boys sort of force Bobby into an embrace. Dean hugs Elizabeth; Julie and Kate are too busy snogging each other and laughing to really notice anyone else. Lizzie jokingly tells them to get a room, when Dean lets her go. The girls actually listen, twining their fingers together and wishing everyone a Happy New Year on their way upstairs. 

Bobby heads home, loaded down with leftovers and offers to stay the night. He thanks Elizabeth warmly, gives her a bear hug, claps Sam on the shoulder with a approving nod (Dean imagines that Bobby is going to use the empty house to start planning floral arrangements for the wedding), and, apparently sensing Dean’s internal monologue, gives him a sharp eye and instructs him and Cas to keep it down when they get back, since they’re planning to stay for the rest of the movie. 

Sam wraps his arm around Elizabeth and meets his brother’s eyes. Dean nods and Sam inclines his head in return. He will tell her in his own time, and Dean is proud of him, happy for him. He soundlessly calls Sam a “bitch” and his brother counters with a smile and a mouthed “jerk.” Dean smirks and nuzzles his face into Cas’ hair. Cas beams, contented. 

The heroes celebrate their victory, and Dean and Cas move to leave. Sam is staying the night (“’atta boy, Sammy,” Dean whispers. Cas and Sam simultaneously shove Dean and cuff him over the head). Cas thanks Elizabeth for her hospitality and invites her to join them for dinner sometime. “Cas is a fucking awesome cook,” Dean affirms and Cas blushes. Elizabeth readily accepts. She leaves Sam’s embrace to warmly hug Cas and then Dean. “Happy New Year, Lizzie,” he says and she smiles, “You too, Dean, it was nice to meet you.” Cas and Sam hug, too, (Dean swears it’s getting less awkward every time…and it’s been happing more frequently ever since Cas decided Sam needed more familial affection in his life). Dean and Sam embrace, strongly. 

“She’s a keeper, man,” Dean whispers and he pats Sam’s back. 

“Thanks,” Sam’s voice is pleased and emabarassed. 

“Be good, Sammy.” 

“You too.”

Cas and Dean don their coats and scarves, Dean places Cas’ hat on his head, and Cas rolls his eyes. They all say good bye again, Dean and Cas walk towards the Impala hand in hand, and Dean takes a moment to look back at his baby brother: his arm draped around Lizzie, her’s around his waist, both of them grin and wave as they close the door.

When they get into the car, Dean heaves a deep sigh.

“Well, that wasn’t too bad,” he smirks at Cas.

Cas’s mouth twitches, “Not bad at all,” he leans over and kisses Dean. 

They compare notes on the holiday. They both like Elizabeth and her family. Cas and Julie exchanged email addresses (Dean so called that). Cas briefly mentions how much he enjoyed reading with Sari, but doesn’t expand further—thank god, because Dean isn’t sure how he feels about this—but he agrees that she was a cool kid. They talk about how happy and well balanced Sam seems. Dean rehashes his convo in the kitchen; Cas tells him that he’s proud of him.

It starts to snow again as the pull up to the house. Bobby left the kitchen light on for them. Cas catches the flurries on his tongue as they stroll up the walk, Dean chuckles and pulls him and presses his lips against his temple. They divest themselves of their winter gear and Cas leads the way up to bed, repeatedly shushing Dean as they intermittently kiss on the way up the stairs. 

They make love in the winter night, the first night of a new year. Later, as they fall asleep, sweaty, and tired, Dean realizes that this is just the beginning. There are new hurdles and new adventures and a new life, new fears and realities and possibilities, but, he smiles—as Cas sleepily presses his mouth to Dean’s throat, and whispers “Good night,” and Dean kisses Cas’ forehead, “Sweet dreams, Cas”—some things will stay the same, and he’s thankful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for taking the time to read this. i had intended to end with christmas day, but some people expressed a desire to meet elizabeth at new year's and here we are. i hope that it wasn't too disappointing. seriously, thank you for reading and commenting. i really appreciate your patience and kindness with regards to this story. i'm planning to write a multi-chapter about cas falling, so stay tuned if your interested. i'd love to hear what you thought of this. thank you again. love and hugs.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi and thanks for reading! Godstiel help me, but I've written a holiday fic (again). I hope that you're enjoying this so far. I've got four chapters of this story written and will be posting them on a regular basis between now and Christmas. Comments and feedback would be really helpful and sincerely appreciated. 
> 
> This story takes place after Season 5, but is pretty much AU from there. I have a lot of headcanon's re: Cas falling, and will probably write a fic about the months between his fall and this story, in the meantime if something doesn't make sense, please, let me know. 
> 
> Thanks again!


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